


l'Appel du Vide

by hartstrings



Series: A Kind of Blindness [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Deacon POV, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, NCR ending, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Fallout: New Vegas, combat abilities somewhat more realistic for a pre-war lawyer, courier six visits the commonwealth, minor world building for post-nuclear kansas, occasional courier POV, sad deacon, slowish burn, sole survivor is not Over It, therapy via bad jokes and playing pretend, you can't save the commonwealth alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 131,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: In madness, there is truth.A 200 year old woman walks the earth. Another crosses from Vegas to Boston. And perhaps most unbelievably, something blooms in an old spy's heart.(Expansion of More Ghosts than People.)
Relationships: (teased) Female Courier/Glory, Craig Boone/Female Courier, Deacon/Female Sole Survivor
Series: A Kind of Blindness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562854
Comments: 154
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> When he meets her for the fifth time, she meets him for the first.

**I.**

Deacon was fond of the area. Sanctuary Hills had earned its name - in the northwest corner of the ‘Wealth, things were fairly quiet. The only civilization around these parts was the odd farmer, nestled in a scrap house or a pre-war dwelling that was sturdy enough to survive the war. For the vast majority of his time here, his only company were the trees and an occasional radstag. 

Sanctuary Hills itself was something like a dream. Rusting houses in cyan and mint green, nestled among bushes and trees with changing leaves. Red and orange. The mixing hues just did something for him, he supposed - gave him a little feeling of blissful prewar suburbia. All light and happiness and ignorance. The place hadn’t been touched by scavengers in any time near the present - likely thanks to the Mr. Handy that roamed the area. It was a town in a bubble, like one of the snow globes he’d found in ruined gift stores. It looked the part in winter.

He was always fond of visiting when his work took him near. Part of him was tempted to sell it to Dez as a safehouse location, but he was selfish enough to want to keep this little slice of heaven for himself. 

Moreover, there happened to be a vault just up the hill - and given that it hadn’t gone and spilled its residents out into the great outdoors, he’d treated it like a ticking time bomb. There were enough horror stories floating about, from the Commonwealth to the Capital Wasteland. Vaults were usually bad news.

So really, he was doing everyone a favor by keeping his mouth shut.

There was an outcropping he was particularly fond of. One that gave him a pleasant view of Sanctuary Hills below, but - most importantly - clear sight of what he guessed as the vault entrance. Dangerous though it may be, if that baby was going to pop, he wanted to _ be _ there.

It was a day like many before it. Deacon had settled into his nook, planning on bunking down in the area for the night. His bedroll was spread out behind the chair he’d posted up in - but for now, he was intent on watching the sun set. It lit up the ghostly towers of Boston on the horizon, silhouetting them against the watercolor sky. The landscape around him was turned gold, and even though it was late October he felt a strange warmth. He had memories of the farm like this - settling back after a long day of work, watching the sky darken with a beer in his hand and listening to dinner being made in the kitchen. If he focused hard enough, he could almost remember a hand on his shoulder, a giggle in his ear, a kiss to his temple.

At first, he thought the sound of scraping metal was a hallucination, his brain’s own way of forcing him to stop dwelling on what had ended so horrifically. A sanity check. But the noise did not cease, and its source was clear.

The vault entrance was an elevator, and it was _ moving _ . Quickly he settled in behind the scrap wood that served as a barrier, resting his rifle atop it. This ranked up there as far as exciting moments in Deacon’s life went, and his mind raced with the possibilities. God, he hoped it wasn’t Super Mutants - the ones in the Capital Wasteland had poured out of a vault, and some of those were _ massive _.

The elevator stopped making noise for just a brief moment - when, he assumed, it had reached the bottom of the shaft - then the screeching picked up again. Deacon watched as a single, solitary figure rose up from the depths wearing a vault suit with ‘111’ proudly emblazoned on the back.

He observed her through his scope. The vault dweller’s face was wet with tears, and she was shivering terribly. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun - must have been down a while. Her figure was softer than any wastelander’s could be, afforded the luxury of a lack of muscle mass. Must have been down a _ long _ while.

The woman let out a sob when she saw the landscape in front of her. She took a step forward, stumbled, fell to her knees and promptly vomited.

She was fucked. Whoever kicked her out had essentially given her a death sentence, that much he was certain of. Her cries were something he was regretfully familiar with - mourning, shock, but there was a piercing edge to them that sent a shiver down his spine. She wasn’t mourning leaving the Vault, he surmised. She was mourning _ someone _.

After a few minutes she managed to compose herself. Enough to stumble to her feet, at least. Deacon was about to make a note to tell Dez about it when he got back to HQ and turn his attention back to his bedroll when he saw the woman stumbling her way toward Sanctuary Hills.

She didn’t know about the Mr. Handy.

Deacon kept his distance, keeping himself on the hill behind the suburb. A glint in the dying sunlight caught his eye, and he raised his scope to his eye, taking the robot into his sights. He didn’t fire, yet - that robot was to thank for the peace of this area of the ‘Wealth, and he wasn’t about to go and ruin everything. Still, he kept his eye on the Vault Dweller and his finger on the trigger.

She crossed the boundary of the suburbs. Usually the Mr. Handy would start shouting warnings, then - but now, there was only silence. Deacon stared as the woman approached the Mr. Handy unharassed, still stumbling about like she’d just learned to walk.

The Mr. Handy hovered over to her, slowly. She threw her arms around its rusted frame in an embrace, and began to sob again.

Hm.  
  
Well - if she was going to die, it wasn’t going to be his fault now. Deacon had bigger concerns - even bigger than a woman rising from a Vault that had been motionless for who knows how long.  
  
Even so - Dez was going to hear about this one.

  
  
**II.**  
  
The next time he saw the Vault Dweller, she’d lost the vault suit and all of that softness that marked her as _ other _. 

Physically, at least.

He was at his usual post when undercover in Diamond City - playing guardsman at the gate, taking note of who passed through. Never for too long, never to clue anyone in that _ hey - I don’t recognize you _. Long enough to get a feel for the state of the Commonwealth, though. Traffic was a good indicator of trouble brewing.

That day’s traffic was screaming out trouble that the Railroad had long been suspecting. Piper was yelling into the intercom, freshly barred from entry for an article she wrote about the Institute’s possible infiltration of the town. While Piper had a flair for the dramatic, she wasn’t one for libel. The brewing hypothesis in the Railroad about the city’s loss was starting to tip towards truth.  
  
Somehow the intrepid reporter convinced Danny to let her in, and who else walked in beside her but the Vault Dweller?

Deacon had yet to be proven wrong when it came to people he got a _ feeling _ about, and he felt a little puff to his ego at the sight of her. It deflated when he noted the change in her appearance, however. 

She was thinner. Her clothes were scavenged, hanging loosely about her. Up close, he could see now how old she was - adding a couple years for how much younger vaulties looked than wastelanders, he guessed her at late twenties, early thirties - but she looked like she hadn’t slept in decades. Her hair - which had been carefully coiffed when he saw her exit the vault - was now matted and sorely neglected. The ‘Wealth had chewed her up and spit her out, that much was clear - but when she addressed the Mayor there was a fire in her that made it clear the ‘Wealth had not yet broken her. 

There was a dog at her heels. That probably helped matters.

Deacon was puzzling over how she’d found a dog without any mange when the Vault Dweller made eye contact with him. He had a smooth greeting in mind, but flubbed it halfway through when the dog came up and started trying to lick his fingers. He was taken aback on principle, to tell the truth. Most people didn’t give the local security a second glance, but she seemed to notice the little things.

It was something he’d love, in the future - though he didn’t know it yet.

**III.**

The Vault Dweller had started to go by Blue. Deacon thought it was somewhat fitting. What he had managed to glean of her, she certainly had her reasons for melancholy. But there was an earnestness about her that carried forth in the few murmurings that had started to grow, an honesty in her interview with Piper that was admirable and _ terrifying _. Where the Commonwealth had ground her down physically, her personality had escaped relatively unscathed. Her dealings with people suggested a lack of cynicism. The few people who’d met her that were willing to talk had expressed her surprising care.

It was going to get her killed. 

Now, though, she had someone to watch her back. Nick Valentine, synth detective and possibly fucking indestructible. Deacon would know what the man was around for even if he wasn’t the Railroad’s all-seeing eye. Nick specialized in tracking down people, and Blue had a news article about exactly who she was trying to track down. It wasn’t the big picture that was of interest to him, though - it was the details.

So when Valentine and Blue waltzed into Goodneighbor with their sights set on the Memory Den, Deacon was filled with such anticipation he was nearly vibrating. At last Blue was crossing into friendly territory. The plan he’d started on seeing her exit from the vault was coming to fruition - all she needed was a little push, a well placed word from one of his tourists. She looked good - her matted hair had been cut into a bob more manageable for the current state of the world, and her eyes were brimming with intent.

The horror on her face when she watched Hancock stab a man in front of her made him nervous, though. If this shook her, maybe the Railroad was a bad idea.  
  
He was thinking of adjustments to his plan when Blue’s dog sniffed the air and started to trot toward him.  
  
Deacon made his escape to the Memory Den. While he trusted Amari and Irma to give him the run down after the fact, he wanted front row seats for this.

\--

On second thought, Blue was a terrible name for her. Accurate, completely - but cruel. 

From his position in his own little Memory Lounger, he could see that whatever she and Nick came for hadn’t gone well. Her eyes were red and her hands shook. Blue was keeping it together for now - she’d come leaps and bounds from what happened when she’d first exited the Vault - but Deacon knew the tells well enough to know she was on a knife’s edge.  
  
Then Nick spoke in a voice Deacon only knew from scavenged holotapes found in destroyed safehouses, and that image she had built visibly cracked. The synth regained awareness quickly enough to muffle Blue’s cries with a fatherly embrace. Deacon was thankful the Memory Den was friendly territory and this moment remained private.

His gut twisted with guilt. Private, save for him.   
  
Why was he thankful?

  
  
**IV.**

The seed had been planted on her return to Diamond City. Amari had already name dropped the Railroad - now all that was left was for Blue to find her way.  
  
She was taking her sweet time. After what had happened in the Memory Den, he couldn’t really blame her. Part of him wondered if she’d gone and gotten herself killed after all - Nick Valentine didn’t accompany her on her next departure from Diamond City, and that dog of hers seemed far too sweet to keep half the Commonwealth’s horrors at bay.

It was a relief to see her step into Bunker Hill, returned to Boston at last. He found himself resentful when people had greeted her as Blue, now. It was a name given because she was a sterling example of a Vault Dweller, but knowing even a fraction of what had happened in there made him think of it as more of a brand. An ill reminder. He’d had a name like that, once - and it was why he had a perhaps unhealthy collection of other names now. There was a strange urge in him to grant her that same power.

The dog still followed her - more closely now than before, the crown of his head always under her palm. He turned to try and sniff at Deacon as they passed him by, but Blue paid no notice.

He overheard her asking questions about the Common and Freedom trail to some caravaneers, later on. It took a substantial amount of effort for Deacon to hide his smile.

There was a fluttering in his chest. He told himself it was because his plan was coming together, that something _ good _ might be heading the Railroad’s way for once. Simple excitement, nothing more.  
  
Certainly not because he saw her smile for the first time when a caravaneer began to describe the guide bot in the Common.

Not so Blue after all.

**V.**

The fifth time he meets her, it’s the first time she’s met him. There was a gleam of pride in his smile when he noted that she had a hint of recognition in her expression.

She noticed the little things. She found her way into HQ. She’d survived the wilderness. Deacon’s instinct was right. They might be saved yet.

He couldn’t keep himself from singing her praises when asked. Desdemona didn’t seem to take too much of it seriously - even when Deacon told the truth, it was so often _ unbelievable _. Dez did, however, seem to believe their new guest’s earnestness. 

“She’s a regular charmer, you know.” he’d added when Dez got too quiet, in the way he knew would result in a _ but _. “I mean it. No one’s got a bad word to say. There’s not another person out there like her.”

Blue had the good grace to keep her expression neutral, but he could see a pink tinge to her cheeks. Humble, too - or maybe she was furious he'd been following her. That concept sparked old feelings, that familiar ember of self hate. He was a liar, a spy, had learned things of her she didn't volunteer. Left her in Sanctuary Hills to discover what the world had become for herself. He deserved her fury for these things and many more. This was all he could do for her in apology - to ensure that she could get what she needed, as easily as she could.

“Fine.” Desdemona surrendered. His thoughts grew brighter. “Welcome to the Railroad. We don’t have the time to train anyone new, but - talk to Deacon.” 

Deacon was a practiced hand at pretending things were first-times. For once, though, his feeling of nervous excitement was genuine.

The plan was coming together.

He’d get her a new name. 


	2. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a beautiful partnership.

The two stepped out into the cool Boston air. The sun was high, casting the city in pale golden light - the mark of winter. Daylight was weak, the nights long. The experience felt somewhat surreal. While winter was usually one of the few things that could make him second guess stepping outside, here the crisp air felt invigorating.

Blue (he hated calling her it) had been fairly silent when he laid out his plan to her in the church behind them. Deacon worried for a moment that she wasn’t the type to ask questions - if so, things would be more boring than he 'd considered. She’d agreed to his proposed job, and obediently followed when he offered to escort her back out. Maybe she was an Institute plant. This quiet woman didn't match up with the tales he'd heard - or the few things he'd observed.

He stood fidgeting next to her while she fiddled with her Pip-Boy. After logging something into her map - directions, he figured - she turned to look at him and spoke at last. 

“Sorry. That place…” Blue wrapped her arms around herself and shivered slightly. It wasn't _that_ cold out - Deacon figured she could do with another coat or two. Her dog whined beside her. “... I don’t like the underground much.” She hazarded a smile at him as weak as the sunlight overhead. “Forgot my manners. My name is-”

Deacon placed his hands to his ears and shook his head dramatically. “Ah-ah-ah. Best not to say. The less I know about you the better.” At her quizzical expression, he uncovered his ears and tried to look as serious as possible. “I’m not joking about that. I’ll give you a little pre-lesson - information is dangerous. Your past can get you killed. We’ll set you up with a safer name once we’re done with the Switchboard.” Truth be told, he knew her name, and had a fair guess at why she didn't like the underground - but he meant what he said. Her past could get her killed as well as his could. That kind of darkness was dangerous.

“Is that why you’ve been following me? Because the less you know about me, the better?” Blue retorted with a huff. “Look, I know at least Dogmeat's seen you before - he doesn’t act this relaxed around strangers. You saw him growl at Desdemona.” 

He smiled, reaching out to pat the German Shepard on the head. “Dogmeat's a good name.” Deacon said the name like a title, happy to at last know what to call the surprisingly soft canine. “I like your sense of humor. And feel a little nauseous at the same time.” His hand moved to scratch Dogmeat behind the ear, and he grinned at seeing the dog’s eyes close in contentment. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get _ that _ hungry.”

Blue’s eyes were focused. “Look, I do want some answers.” She didn’t take the bait - she’d batted away his change of subject in a way that suggested she had experience with it. “You followed me. You were trying to sell Desdemona on the idea of me joining up like your life depended on it. If I’m going to trust you at my back, all I need to know is why.”

Deacon stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth in place for a moment. A big show to let her know she had him. “After the Switchboard, we lost a lot of people. We might be a teensy weensy bit in need of a helping hand. Warm bodies, you know?.” 

Silence. He found himself wanting to fill it on reflex. It was a trap, he knew - knew this old technique, giving people enough rope to hang themselves with, wielding awkward social situations like a weapon. Deacon let himself dip a toe in. It’d give him a few extra chances to surprise her. He’d let her believe he wasn’t as competent as he was, for now.

“You made a bit of a stir in Diamond City. I couldn’t let Dez throw that away. I thought you’d be a good fit.”

Still, silence. Blue simply continued to stare at him, letting the moments pass. Waiting. This time he didn’t take the bait, however. When at last she spoke, he couldn’t stifle his smirk.

“Hope I don’t let you down, then.” she sighed, exhaling a breath he didn’t know she was holding. He watched her warm breath fog out in front of her.

“I figured it’d be me finding you, not the other way around.” Deacon admitted. “Would have eventually if you didn’t come knocking on our doorstep. Proved I was right to put you on my list, so - I don’t think you’re going to let anyone down. Basic literacy is a rare talent out here, you know.” 

Blue rolled her eyes, but smiled nevertheless. “I’ll put it on my resume. Should get me a corner office somewhere.” That laser focus that had been so intently pointed at him drifted away to scan the horizon. It dragged over the skeletal skyscrapers, what little metal plating remained glittering in the sun. 

Deacon was keenly aware that every moment that passed with the two of them standing on the Old Church’s doorstep was another moment they risked discovery. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, looking at the ruins of the Old World - but that was a chat for another time. “Hey, kid-” That got her attention back quickly - her expression looked as if she didn’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered. “-do me a favor, and get a bigger jacket on your way to Lexington. If we get the wind blowing in from the sea any time soon, you’ll thank me for it.”

“Lexington. Right.” she nodded, shoulders squared. Braced herself for the inevitable trial that was navigating post-war Boston. “I’ll do that.” She stepped down to the leaf-strewn cobblestone below, which Dogmeat took as an invitation to go scouting ahead. Deacon waited until the two of them disappeared around the corner before slinking back into the church. 

\--

He beat her there. Of course he would, though - Deacon knew the Commonwealth’s trails as well as any caravaneer, and if she did as he advised a pit stop for warmer clothing would be a minor roadblock. Exactly as planned - he could set the scene, await her in full scavver regalia and see just how long it took her to recognize him.

Not long enough, it turned out. Dogmeat proved to be the worst snitch - the hound let out a happy bark as soon as he could smell Deacon on the wind and trotted over with Blue in tow.

She at least acknowledged it. “Wow. I uh... wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Your dog’s a narc.” Deacon replied with a shrug. “I appreciate you trying to save my ego, but I suppose my natural musk just can’t be contained.” Blue’s resulting grimace was exactly what he wanted. “I’m not bothered - this can be a learning experience for me. If I can figure out how to trick a dog’s nose, the possibilities are _ endless. _ Smells aside - how do I look? I call it wastelander camo. _Get away from this pile of garbage, it’s mine! _You're lucky I didn't do one of my face swaps, you know - even with Fido here I think that'd throw you for a loop.”

Blue was starting to understand the type of person he was - at least, the type of person he’d cobbled together to call Deacon, for now. It was his favorite part of meeting new people - those few who had the privilege (and the curse) of getting to ‘know’ this particular mask of his. It was the one closest to his skin. He enjoyed seeing the conflict play out on their faces, annoyance mixed with begrudging respect or amusement. Deacon had yet to meet someone he couldn’t do it to, and Blue was no exception.

"Face swap." she said flatly.

"They do them in Diamond City. You never took a trip to the Med Center basement?" His favorite - sprinkle in a little truth, then hit them with a lie and see what happened. "Oh, you're in for a treat next time. One time I went undercover as a ghoul for a month. Good times."

The woman surveyed him with suspicion, an unsaid _ Are you for real? _ clear on her face. She was probably wondering if this really was a good idea after all, if she hadn’t just placed her faith in the worst possible candidate. 

She wasn’t entirely wrong, there - but Deacon pushed that line of thinking firmly away. It’d have its time to crawl around in his skull. For now, though, he tried to hold onto the excitement of surprising her. Thinking of what her face would look like when he proved that, if nothing else, he was dangerously competent.

"I like my face." she replied after some thought. "I've got my mom's nose, you know?" Deacon realized quite abruptly that her mother was dead - a couple centuries dead, if what Piper wrote was true. “As for your wastelander camo? I’d get rid of the hat. Or the sunglasses. Both is a little much - how much sun protection do you need? Uh. Boss.” Blue’s words helped to cement him into that cheerier prospect. She sounded somewhat uncertain as she spoke, as if she was choosing her words carefully. Now _ that _ wouldn’t do.

“Hey, big part of this whole operation - this isn’t the Brotherhood of Steel. Say whatever’s on your mind. No stupid questions - and I mean it. You want to know why the sky’s blue, I’ll tell you. We play it real casual friday here.” Deacon did his best to sound genuine - his attempts at a serious tone weren’t always believed, and this time it was important. “As long as it’s on a need to know basis, you’ve got a right to know. Just don’t expect me to be divulging all of my trade secrets.” The serious moment was wiped away by the smirk on his face. “Speaking of - let’s get this show on the road. Our tourist should be up on the overpass.”

\--

So far, so good. Blue conducted herself admirably in dealing with the tourist, and had the good sense to agree with Deacon when he proposed entering Switchboard through the escape tunnel. He’d seen understanding dawn in her expression when he explained the rail signs, and felt a rush of eagerness when she’d admitted to trying to puzzle them out on her own. This was a good choice.

Why’d he feel the need to keep telling himself that?

The sun was setting, turning the world orange by the time they made it to the grated culvert, behind which lay the tomb the Switchboard had become. Deacon had successfully compartmentalized it, as he had everything else in the trash fire his life had become. He couldn’t afford to get hung up looking at what rot and decay had done to people he once called friends. 

“Dogmeat, stay.” Blue ordered the hound. He whined, but obediently sat down.

“Probably for the best.” Deacon agreed. “Listen, you’re a good boy, but your stealth skills could use some work.” He’d been making a habit of scritching Dogmeat behind the ears already, and it was a firm reminder of why he didn’t keep pets. It was impossible not to get attached, and out in the wastes life was cheap and short. Deacon didn’t want his life to be Old Yeller reruns. 

Dogmeat whined again. “Don’t look so glum. Gen 1s don’t have anything fun to chew on. Metal’s probably bad for your teeth. Hey, uh-” Deacon looked back over to Blue, who was in the process of trying to get the grate open with minimal noise. “- he going to be okay out here?”

The grate made a terrible screech when Blue pulled it open, despite her best efforts. Both of them grimaced - and Deacon was sure Dogmeat would too, if he could. “He’ll head back to - well, not home, but somewhere safe if we’re not out in time. Probably Nick’s.”

“Huh.” The mental image of the detective synth scratching a dog’s belly was heartwarming enough to buoy his spirits as they entered. The scent of rot hit first - while the temperatures outside were cooling, the Switchboard’s pre-war generators and heaters were fully operational. Blue shuddered beside him, but her gaze remained steely.   
  
“Is there anything else in here you’d like to get besides the prototype?” she murmured lowly. Deacon shook his head.

“Prototype is priority. Anything else isn’t worth the risk, but I won’t complain if we’re lucky enough to find some things. Just don’t make a point of it.” He levelled a serious look at her. “And if it’s too much, say the word and we’re out.”

Blue’s jaw clenched, and she returned his look with one of her own. “I can do this.” she breathed. “Just let me know the plan of attack. I’m, uh-”

“-a lover, not a fighter. Don’t worry, I’m the same way.” Deacon flashed her a smile as her expression became flustered. Good. He’d keep her distracted from the grim reality that surrounded them, and she’d never live up to the nickname Piper had given her again. “Okay. The Switchboard’s a bit of a maze, but that’s a good thing. A lot of corners to slip around, short sight lines. If we take our time and figure out their patrol patterns, we should get through without having to waste too many bullets.”

Blue nodded. “Anything in the facility we can put to use?”

“If you’re good with computers, maybe. Tinker Tom tripped the turret system on our way out, and I’m sure there’s a few things he missed.” Deacon swallowed, batted away the memory that flitted into his mind. The sense of impending doom followed by all out panic, the echoing screams that signalled it had begun, getting cut short one by one. Tinker Tom’s fingers dancing across the console keys, the green monitor reflected in his tear-rimmed eyes. 

“I’m good with computers.” Blue replied, loosing her pistol from its holster and turning off the safety. “I like the plan. Let’s keep things quiet. I only learned how to shoot this thing a couple months ago, so if we’re going to start a fight I gotta be close.” She waved away the flicker of horror on his face. “I’ve done it before. Can usually take out a few before they notice me. Plus - I figure you’re pretty good at making distractions.”

_ That _ took him by surprise. “... that I am. Alright. If we’re seen, I’ll start yelling, you start shooting. Good talk.” They exited the culvert, stepping into the ruined basement of the Switchboard. Already he could spot corpses - the poor souls that were just a fraction too late, just a few meters from freedom. “Let’s make this quick.”

\--

Blue noticed the little things. It was a gift and a curse. He watched her face scan over the slowly rotting bodies of ill-fated Railroad agents, watched her lip quiver when she caught sight of the younger ones. 

Still, it didn’t slow them down. For someone sealed in a Vault for freshness, she was eerily skilled at moving undetected. Explained how she’d managed to live this long when she could barely aim a gun. Not that it mattered - the two of them had gotten into one firefight, when a synth turned unexpectedly. She was right - so long as Deacon could afford to keep their foes attention on him, she could get close enough to dispatch them. His heart was pounding when they made it to the vault. The two of them had just successfully done a job Dez had planned on sending a whole fire team on. Well, one half of a job. The other half was getting out.

He watched her at the console by the front door, illuminated by the monitor’s green light. Blue wasn’t exactly the pretty type even when he’d first seen her - an extra, not a leading lady, but that was exactly the type of person that did best in their line of work. Here, though, she looked ghostly: her skin was pale, her eye sockets bruised and sleepless. Truth be told, he felt a little ghostly himself. They were two spectres, drifting about unseen and unheard. 

Deacon had prepared himself for Tommy’s corpse, but seeing it still felt like a punch to the gut. The man lay slumped against a collapsed shelf, the ground under him stained red. Deacon spotted a bullet wound in his thigh, and supposed it was a small solace that it was blood loss that got the man and not starvation. 

“So Tommy Whispers didn’t make it out.” He breathed the truth into the air, letting it hang. Deacon knew it, long suspected it - if Tommy hadn’t yet come back on their radar, it was because there was no Tommy left to return. A weight settled across his shoulders. “Died protecting our secrets.” 

Blue lowered her head, silent. Deacon cleared his throat and tried to search Whispers’ body as respectfully as he could.

The component was tucked into the inside pocket of Whispers’ coat, over his heart. “... there.” Deacon heard Blue’s footsteps approach, and a thought struck him. He unbuckled Tommy’s holster and took the pistol that lay there. He offered it to Blue, grip facing outward.  
  
“Tommy would want you to have this.” The pale fluorescent light above caught the engravings on the pistol - _ DELIVERER _ . Blue took it into her hands with reverence, tracing over the letters with her fingers. “Don’t let its size fool you.” he added, cracking a smile that felt more like a grimace.   
  
“... thank you.” Blue spoke at last, breaking the heavy spell of silence that laid over the vault. Her tone was delicate, an echo of years long passed by. The smile she offered him in return was sad - but hopeful. 

It gave him an odd feeling he didn’t want to let linger. “Alright, Christmas is over. Let’s get the hell out of here before they notice a missing patrol.” Deacon dusted himself off. Blue slotted a magazine into her newly gifted hand cannon. He’d forgotten it - the odd sort of synergy that settled in when you worked with a partner.

God, he hoped this was enough to ensure she’d be his. At this early stage she was already at Tommy’s level - with a little training from yours truly, she’d be something to be feared.

He hazarded a glance at Tommy’s body on the way out.

Hopefully she wouldn’t share his fate.


	3. Wasteland Interlude I

It was like crossing the Divide all over again. 

The dangers were less, to be sure - but the feeling of it was draped around her as she walked. Surrounding her like the dust her feet kicked up. She passed beyond memory of the Legion, its ravages left behind her. The desert stretched on and on, long past Zion. If it wasn’t for her Pip-Boy, she’d have been lost weeks ago, landmarks few and far between. 

The few ruined towns she came across sustained her when her supplies ran out - here it was too dry for ferals to prosper, the open air dessicated them beyond moving. She wondered how long it would be until she joined them in their fate. Her skin grew rough, sandblasted by the wind. Burned and peeled in the sunlight. Blisters turned to callouses. Somewhere along the way the soles of her boots gave out, and the next replacement she found was a few sizes too big and had to be stuffed with rags. 

The days were cruel. The nights were worse.

She dreamed of him. Dreamed of stopping before she left the tent, letting him speak the words she so longed to hear. Dreamed of nights in the desert spent like this, camped in the shadow of a crumbling wall. Saw his face in the flames of her campfire, remembered the only time she’d ever heard him sing, when they’d leaned against each other and knocked back whiskey and watched the fire turn to embers. 

Craig Boone. The name echoing in her mind with each footstep -  _ Left. Right. Left. Right. Craig. Boone.  _

Maybe it was rad poisoning. Clean water was near impossible to find, and rad storms weren’t uncommon. Sometimes her thoughts evolved into full hallucinations. The masked figure of Lanius standing at the horizon in front of her, crimson cloth stark against the endless stretch of sand. 

Sometimes she stumbled. Her body would fall to the ground with a dull thud, lighter with every week that passed. Consciousness would leave her, sometimes, but she always woke up. Part of her wondered if this was purgatory. There had to be wildlife, even the Divide had Deathclaws - and she had a finite amount of bullets. Somehow she remained untouched. Maybe they just figured she was another feral. Or maybe her punishment for her hubris was loneliness in its purest form.

At times she was tempted to put a bullet in her brain. To put neat little bookends on this half-life she had been granted, that started with her being born from the grave. 

She couldn’t, though. Too many good people had died. She could not stop. Not until she finally outpaced her memory, left House and the NCR and the Legion and Craig Fucking Boone in the dust behind her.

Courier Six would deliver herself to the sea. She’d walk her corpse there if she had to.


	4. Charmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise is kept.

Dogmeat somehow knew where to find them when they took the front door out, running forward to meet them once they were clear of the synth patrols outside. 

Maybe he really _ did _ need a shower.

Either way, the presence of the canine was a breath of fresh air - alongside the literal breath of fresh air they were able to take in when they stepped into the great outdoors. Night had fallen, and with it a thin layer of frost had gathered over the landscape, twinkling in the moonlight. It was the sort of view that made him understand what a sight for sore eyes meant - he was all too eager to wipe away the memory of the Switchboard with the fractal patterns of ice spreading across the concrete in front of them.

Blue double-checked their surroundings before speaking. “It’s late.”

“Glad you don’t have night-blindness.” Deacon drawled. “We can bunk down by the overpass.”

It wasn’t his first time operating with a partner, but it had been long enough for him to forget the mechanics of it. Working with others meant that he couldn’t wave away the basic comforts like he did running solo. While he tried his best to run on as little sleep as possible, not everyone shared his view on optimizing his time. 

On the bright side, at least Blue could cook. 

It was with no small amount of interest that he watched her unpack the backpack she carried around. For one - she’d managed to cram in a frankly criminal amount of junk, but for two - she still had some much-needed essentials. 

He looked over her combined salvage thoughtfully while they sat across the fire from each other on their bedrolls, chewing on some InstaMash supplemented with radstag jerky. “You know, I’m supposed to be the one with all the scrap.” 

“Guess we’ll have to swap outfits.” Blue rolled her shoulders, absently massaging her neck. Her food went relatively untouched, and after the first couple bites she gave up and nudged her bowl toward Dogmeat.

“Now you’re getting it.” He smiled at her. “Let’s get a prince and pauper operation going. Keep everyone on their toes. If we can find a wig in your color, I think I could do a pretty good impression.” The matter of her food was left to lie. Deacon wouldn’t be able to eat much in her shoes either - he almost felt a pang of guilt at how easily he was able to just get on with things now. But getting on with it meant making up for the past - dwelling was counter intuitive. 

Blue returned his smile, but it faded quickly. She moved a bit closer to the fire. Dogmeat curled up at her side, his food finished, and she let her hand rest on top of him. “How do people manage the winter?”

Deacon blinked at her and shrugged. “Same as they always have. Bundle up tight, plan ahead, don’t get caught without heat or shelter. It’s not so bad. January’s only the real cold part. For all the talk about the whole nuclear winter thing, it seemed to have warmed things up.” 

“You know a lot about all the talk they used to do.” she eyed him with mild suspicion. He waved it away with a laugh.

“Unlike most of the Commonwealth, I’m at a high school reading level.” Another few bites of his food - he hadn’t really realized he was hungry until he started eating. “I try not to have too much downtime, but you can’t avoid it. Reading helps. Hey, you got any Nuka-Cola in there?” Deacon tried to peer around her at her backpack. Questions about how he knew what he knew made him antsy, and he couldn’t quite get a bead on her motive. She was suspicious, at least - had every right to be - and he didn’t want to make her think she couldn’t trust him. Bastard though he might be, people could rely on him. Whether they knew it or not.

Blue reached for her pack, causing Dogmeat to whine lowly at the sudden lack of contact. She passed a Nuka-Cola bottle over with no argument. “Reading, huh? Pretty wholesome.” Her suspicion had softened into curiosity - not much better, in his book. “When I ask most people what they do for fun, it’s drinking, or gambling, or shooting.” 

Deacon twisted the cap off, relishing in the soft _ hiss _ of released carbonation. He raised the bottle to her in a toast. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m pretty into those too.” The cola made his tongue tingle when he gulped it down, sugar and caffeine filling him with a wonderful rush.

“Probably not a good idea to have one of those before bed, you know.” Blue observed in a tone that was eerily motherly. Knowing the context made his stomach twist a little. Thankfully, she returned to the previous subject. “Still. Reading. I’ve got a little collection myself - maybe we can trade things.”

“I’d like that. The Railroad Book Club.” Deacon grinned at her. “Although I should warn you, I’ve tried to tap that well without much luck. Glory’s not a fan, Tinker Tom’s into either crazy conspiracy shit or engineering textbooks that’ll put you to sleep. Drummer Boy’s more into comics.” He listed them out on his fingers. “Desdemona likes to say she’s too busy for it, and Carrington’s an asshole.” 

“I know three of those names.” Blue frowned. “Hope I’ll be able to meet Tinker Tom and Carrington. Asshole or not.” There was an edge to her tone, a furrow in her brow. He knew that expression - she was figuring out what to do if their little expedition wasn’t enough. 

“You’ll meet them, don’t worry. They can’t argue after what we did back there, though you might regret it when you meet Carrington.” He reassured. Blue didn’t look convinced. Time to pivot back. “I’m into history.” he began. “Old books are easy to find, but intact newspapers are a treasure on their own. You don’t really get the view of the everyday people in the ancient texts, and they’re the most important part. Letters to the Editor? Pure gold. Entertainment section’s pretty nice, too. Tried to sell Dez on the idea of getting Tinker Tom to put together a projector for HQ, tracking down a few old movie tapes… waste of resources, apparently.”

That got her to brighten up a little. “I didn’t think anything would still be intact.” Her smile remained, this time. Another victory for today. “I’ll keep a lookout for them - in case you didn’t notice, I’m pretty good at scavving.” A gesture to her unpacked collection of spare parts and bits of circuitry. “Call it a personal project. Not a crime to do that, is it?”

Deacon felt what he assumed the people he’d interviewed about her did. There was an earnestness in her voice that made him think that this little favor was a _ priority _, that this request was important to her. He was valued - not the part of him that was business, but the part of him that longed for something to nourish his thoughts. He gulped down his Nuka-Cola to buy him a few moments of silence before he spoke next.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to hold anything against you once we get that component in. Seriously, relax. I don’t know what kind of organizations you’re used to, but the Railroad - we’re like a big, dysfunctional family. With guns.” The sooner they got back to HQ the better. “Get some rest. I’ve got first watch.” He shook the empty bottle of Nuka in his hand. “I’m not sleeping any time soon.”

Blue huffed, but her smile widened. “Told you so.” She slipped into her bedroll, shifting in it uncomfortably until Dogmeat moved so she could rest her head on his side. “... good night, Deacon.”

“G’night, pal.”

\--

Travelling through the city took longer than it would have alone. Blue had a habit of staring down streets, pausing in front of certain buildings for just a moment. Deacon couldn’t hold it against her - he wished he could make it better, in some way. Instead he’d make a dumb joke, comment on a tacky paint job or something, and whatever spell held her in place would be broken and they’d continue on their way.

He held his hand up when they stepped into the old church. “Alright. Give me ten minutes to really set the stage, then come on in. Sound good?”

“We’re in a play now?” Blue frowned. “Look, you said that the component would be enough, if they need more convincing I don’t think lying to them is going to make a good first impression-”

“All the world’s a stage.” Deacon interrupted. _ That _ ended that particular train of thought. “It’s part of the job. Besides, they’re used to my… unconventional relationship with the truth. Won’t take it personally, promise. But they haven’t worked alongside you, haven’t seen what you can do. I’m just making you a nice little detour so we can skip the ‘getting to know you’ bullshit.”

Blue worried at her lip, arms folded in front of her. “... okay. I can’t really afford to waste any time, can I?” She swallowed and squeezed herself a little tighter. “Do what you have to do. Just…”

“Trust me. My reputation’s on the line here too. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was worth it.” Deacon patted her on the shoulder. “Besides. It’ll be fun. Add acting to the list of hobbies.”

That got her to relax. “You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Well, go on. You have _ five _ minutes.”

“I’m good at working under pressure.” He winked at her, then sprinted for the basement. Five minutes didn’t offer much opportunity for a _ real _ story, but that didn’t stop him before.

\--

“Knock knock!” He yelled as he entered the crypt. The flood lights came on, and he was reminded of why he’d never listened when they’d called him an asshole for wearing sunglasses indoors. 

Dez was standing in much the same pose Blue had assumed earlier. She radiated skepticism. “Not like you to use the front door. Where’s the woman?”

“We caught a tail. She’s just running them off.” Deacon made a big show of grimacing. “I couldn’t, took a hit to the leg.”

Dez raised a brow. “Doing what?”

Bait taken. Excellent. “We hit up the Switchboard.”

“You _ what _?” Dez’ nostrils flared, but her tone didn’t rise in volume. Her anger was a cold thing, calculating - exactly what had kept the Railroad limping along despite everything. She was about to launch into a scolding, but Deacon held up the prototype component to cut her short. 

“Look, we’ve got good reason to be cautious but she _ killed Kellogg _. Giving her tourist jobs would be a waste, and any of the usual first time runs wouldn’t give us any real scope of what she could do. Switchboard was a perfect proving ground.” Line up the truth first, a well reasoned argument, evidence - then lay on the fabrication. “Tourist was spooked bad, but she convinced him to give us the intel. There was a minefield out front and dozens of synths, so we took the back entrance. They’d locked the grate, but she picked it. She hacked the electrical, caused a couple arc flashes to take out some patrols. There were… god, must have been a hundred gen 1s in there.” 

He swallowed thickly, making a big display of his displeasure. Now to lay on a mixed bag of truth and lie. It was his own little diplomacy sandwich. “In the chaos, we managed to sneak around them. Got the component. Started to sneak back out, but I was spotted. She took out the patrol that spotted me while they were distracted, but not before they got me in the leg.” He gestured at his calf. “Well, things had gone straight to shit, so she picked me up and took off running-”

Footsteps interrupted him before he could get to the _ real _ good part. Dez’ gaze flickered over to the crypt entrance. Blue stood there cautiously, but stepped forward briskly when it was clear she was noticed. Deacon wondered how long she’d been there.

“Which wasn’t easy, because he weighs as much as a brahmin.” Blue picked up where he left off. Her hands were in her pockets, and her tone was slightly sheepish. The image of humility.

Fuck, he knew how to pick them. It was hard not to smile - it was like she’d stabbed some Psycho into his ego. Dez’s expression softened, skepticism lowered by a small degree. 

“We made it to the elevator, and I shot at the mines outside to take out the synths in our way.” Blue continued. “Camped for the night, jabbed Deacon with a couple stimpaks and… made it here.”

Desdemona might have been somewhat convinced, but she wasn’t stupid. “If even half of that is true, I’m impressed. Deacon was _ supposed _ to take in a full team, including Glory, to secure that prototype. But instead just the two of you cleared it out.” 

The pins were lined up, time to roll the ball. “You’d be insane not to sign her up, Dez.” 

She gave Blue an appraising look, taking a drag from her cigarette. “You’ve certainly impressed Deacon. He’s never spoken of - or lied about - someone so highly before.”

Blue stared at him, clearly touched. It was Deacon’s turn to be sheepish.

“Welcome to HQ, _ agent _.” Desdemona placed emphasis on the word, and as soon as it left her lips Blue was beaming.

“Thank you. I hope I’ll do good work here. After seeing what happened to the people at Switchboard… I want to make sure it wasn’t in vain.” There it was, that almost painful earnestness. After seeing the little show of humility she gave earlier it hit even harder. How she could dance around the truth yet return to blatant honesty couldn’t be healthy.

“Now we need to know what to call you. Secrecy is our armor - it’s the veil that protects us from ourselves. Code names are step one. So what’s yours?” Desdemona continued. Blue glanced to Deacon. He shrugged. He _ told _ her it was best they didn’t know her name.

“I get to choose?” Blue asked slowly.

That got a smile out of Desdemona. “They’re still personal. This is the new you. The part of you that’s all Railroad. It should have some sort of meaning to you, whatever brand that takes. Your life, your name, your choice.”

Deacon felt warmth bloom in his chest when he saw what _ new you _ meant to her. Blue’s eyes were gleaming. There was a soft little smile on her face, and her hands were clasped together in front of her. She looked years younger, like she had been standing behind a dirty window that someone had taken a cloth to.

Her attention flickered to him for just a moment before she answered Desdemona at last.

“Charmer.”

_ Charmer. _ The polar opposite of the sobbing woman in the blue jumpsuit. An identity that fit her, that wasn’t wrapped up in a past too painful to comprehend. _ Charmer _. Who noticed the little things, who was earnest and caring enough to already start tales running about her. In the Railroad, she could be whatever she wanted, free of anything she didn't want to remember.

If he’d done one thing in his life, he’d at least given her this.


	5. Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charmer and Deacon learn a few things.

“You thought these were all our actual names?”

Deacon gawked at her. It’d been a week or so since she’d been accepted into the Railroad in an official capacity. He’d been touring Charmer through the ruins near HQ’s back entrance, giving her tips on how to ensure she wasn’t followed and how to evade any unwanted pursuers, when she’d only _ just then _admitted she didn’t realize the Railroad used code names on first meeting.

“I don’t see how that’s unreasonable!” Charmer huffed as they climbed over a pile of rubble in the street. Her face was flushed - whether from embarrassment or exertion was a mystery. Deacon suspected the former. It was good to see color in her cheeks, whatever the cause. Made her look a little less like death. “Desdemona, Deacon, Glory - those are all pretty normal names in my book. Drummer Boy was a little weird, but I figured it was just a nickname or something.”

“Oh, god, stop now or I’m going to really second guess my judgement here.” His breath puffed out into fog as he spoke. He scowled at the sight of it.

“I’m just saying. If you’re going to use code names, I figure you should go all out. I’m surprised you of all people didn’t go for something crazy.” Dodging around a gaping sinkhole filled with radioactive wastewater, she squinted at him. He’d slapped on his wasteland doctor disguise - sue him, it made him feel official to wear it when he was training an agent and given how training usually didn’t end without someone getting injured it was fitting for the occasion. Charmer had squinted at him when he pulled on the labcoat much as she was now - _ oh, we’re just getting started, pal. _

“I’ll have you know, Deacon is a perfectly eccentric code name.” He pulled at his lapels, straightening the lab coat. “You see any priests around these days? Might as well be a mythical creature.”

“Didn’t take you for the religious type.” Charmer was still staring at him. Her boot caught the edge of a piece of concrete and she stumbled in reward for her distraction. Karma. It was enough to shake any thought of following up on the question of his code name from her mind.

He covered his internal relief with amusement. “Little Railroad tip for you - always keep your eyes open.”

Honestly, he hadn’t had to do much instruction so far. Despite her… unique background, or maybe because of it, Charmer found navigating the city relatively easy. He supposed she was probably still familiar with Boston’s landscape, though it had a few more holes and collapsed freeways than she remembered. Most of his work was pointing out the shortcuts that the ravages of war had left on the landscape. A crashed truck making a nice ramp into a building’s exposed second floor, a trip up the fire escape until you had the rooftops sprawling out before you and a veritable candy store of snipers nests to choose from.

This was another of his goals for the day, besides showing her the many hidden paths marked by rail signs. Neither of them were built for Glory’s work, but the Railroad needed another heavy and they couldn’t always rely on stealth in close quarters. The best way to clear a route was from afar. Even a super mutant couldn’t shrug off a hollowpoint to the skull. Distance granted safety.

“Are you serious?” Charmer eyed him with suspicion as he slung his rifle from his back. “I barely know my way around a pistol.”

“Exactly why we’re going to be doing these exercises, my friend.” He settled in next to a destroyed A/C unit, too clogged with dust and debris to have a hope of operating anymore. “We’ll start off facing the river. That way stray bullets won’t hit any poor innocents, since there’s going to be a lot. Bullets, not innocents.” 

Deacon handed Charmer the rifle as she approached. “On your stomach. Prop the rifle up on the edge of the roof.” She did as she was told, though she seemed somewhat afraid of the rifle. “Don’t worry, kickback’s not too bad. Just keep it in the meat of your shoulder, let it absorb the impact. Comfortable?”

“The asphalt’s digging into my stomach, and I’m hugging a rifle.” Charmer muttered, side-eying him. Still, she nodded.  
  
“Don’t get too familiar with it, that’s my best girl.” Deacon took the binoculars from his belt and slid down onto his stomach next to her. “Now look through the scope. You see that boat? Black hull, orange cargo container?” He’d done his work in the early morning while Charmer still slept in her newly claimed floor mattress in HQ. Buoys were strung up across the cargo container, bright and visible and of varying sizes. Target practice.   
  
A few moments silence, then; “Yeah.” Charmer wriggled beside him, adjusting her position. “What’s with the-”

“Buoys? That’s what you’ll be killing today.” Deacon swept the area with his binoculars, ensuring that they weren’t noticed. It was noon, the sun straight above them - ideally the glint from her scope wouldn’t be too terrible, but if they were at risk of attracting attention he wanted to double-check before they got started. Thankfully, Boston’s streets in this part of town were empty. “Okay. Similar principle to using a pistol applies. Importance is just multiplied. Grip firm but not too firm, don’t tense up. Time your shots in between breaths. Don’t try to hold your breath too long or it’ll make things worse. This is natural.”

He was glad he’d insisted on getting Charmer some warmer clothes, since even now her legs trembled in the cold. Hopefully it wouldn’t throw her aim off. If he had his way, they’d be doing this when it warmed up - but the Institute hadn’t afforded them the luxury of time. At least there was no wind.

“Work left to right. Fire when ready.” Deacon instructed, peering back at the buoys through his binoculars.

Her first shot hit the container, at least. Her second went wide as she over-corrected. After some adjustments to her form, she hit the first buoy on her fifth. Not terrible - but this was the distance of a few blocks. Deacon had his work cut out for him.

The sun crawled its way across the sky. By the time they ran out of ammo it was fast approaching sunset and only two buoys had been hit.

“That’s the last of my rounds.” He hooked his binoculars back into his belt and grunted as he stood. _ Old man. _ He couldn't cut that part of him away, however he tried.

Charmer avoided his gaze when she handed his rifle back to him. “If we keep this up you’re going to go broke.” she sighed, looking back out to the river. “Ammo’s not cheap.”

“Sure isn’t. But I think the investment’s worth it.” Deacon chirped, returning his rifle to its usual perch on his back. He offered her a bright smile at her skeptical look. “I mean it. I’ll spend a few caps on bullets if it means it’ll have you saving someone’s ass later. Charmer stock’s only going to rise from here on out.”

Charmer snorted, but ceased her argument. The two made their way down to the street before she spoke again.

“So, I don’t know if this is bad manners or anything, but really. Why Deacon?” she ventured, kicking a small lump of ruined sidewalk down the street. The question caught him off guard. Why she cared was beyond him - maybe it was just idle curiosity. He’d offer her an answer of similar substance, then.

“Because I work miracles, baby.” Deacon spread out his arms and tilted his head up to the sky. He could feel Charmer roll her eyes, even if he couldn’t see her. He dropped the pretence, hands falling back to his sides. “I found a caps stash in a confession booth once. Thought it was a sign.” 

It pleased him to see Charmer unconvinced. Had a nose for lies, that one. Not that he’d had to whip out the big guns yet - but most of the Commonwealth didn’t have a good handle on the big guns. Little lies, though, the attempts at casual excuses? Dime a dozen. 

She stuffed her hands in her pockets, chewing her lip. “Has anyone ever changed a code name?”

Deacon blinked at her behind his sunglasses. _ Where did that come from? _ “Getting sick of it already, Charms? I’m taking that one personally.”

“I like mine. Even if you inspired it.” she added, wrinkling her nose at him in mock disgust. “Just curious. Names have meaning, you know? What if there starts to be bad associations with it? Or your cover’s blown?”

“It’s a giant pain in everyone’s ass.” Deacon spoke as casually as he could. It was a pain in the ass he’d caused, once upon a time. Back then, though, it was a small one - given that all that was left of the Railroad he could count on one hand. “But it’s been done. Usually because something’s been compromised and the old one isn’t safe. If something big enough happens to make the code name, uh… painful, let’s say, people usually just quit.” 

“People quit?” Charmer inclined her head towards him, causing a few more strands of hair to slip from the messy bun it was kept in. Deacon lost himself peering at the construction of it before answering her. It was a style he’d only ever seen in pre-war magazines.

“Sure do. We’re not a cult or anything. Promise.” He winked at her. “Things can get pretty serious. Not everyone’s cut out for it. It’s why we keep everything compartmentalized, so that when shit hits the fan we don’t have everyone scurrying away with all our secrets. Most people don’t even know who Desdemona is.” 

Charmer mused on this new information, glancing back down at her boots. “It means a lot.” she exhaled. “This level of trust. I know words don’t mean much, but I’ll-”

“You made it up to us with Switchboard. Don’t worry about it.” Deacon waved his hand, coming to a stop. He looked at her sternly. “If we’re going to keep having these pep talks I’m going to start charging, though. We’ve got to get you some confidence.”

“I have confidence.” Charmer snapped, coming to a stop next to him. She deflated a little, expression guilty. “That’s not the problem.”

“Well, whatever it is - you’re here. If you want out, say so, but if not then just trust me on this one.” Deacon kept his tone light, casual. He mirrored her stance, hands in his pockets. The little things, to subconsciously soothe. Prying out why she was like this wasn’t his intent - she was allowed to have her secrets - but he had to get her on board or this was going to be a disaster.

“Okay. ” she sighed “I trust you.”

“Thank you.” Deacon resumed their walk back to HQ. “Now, back to business. I’ve got another training exercise for us tomorrow.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t involve shooting anything.”

“No. It involves acting.”

\--

The look on her face when he handed her the wig and his ‘wasteland camo’ was almost as good as the glare she had cast him when he tugged on the Diamond City Security armor. The two stood in an abandoned building just a block down Boston’s great green jewel - Deacon’s attention was currently occupied by making sure the street outside was clear while Charmer changed into her costume. Her shivering was audible in between furious words uttered under her breath.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Even though his back was turned to her, he could practically feel her frustration.

“I said the Railroad needs a union.” Charmer grumbled from behind him. “Why the hell couldn’t I change in HQ?”

“You’re not always going to have the chance. Better get used to it.” Deacon barely dodged the boot tossed in his direction. It landed on the ground with a dull thud. “Hey, assaulting an officer’s a criminal offense, you know.”

Charmer barked a laugh. “Bring me to a courtroom. I _ dare _ you.” A grunt. “Wish I had a mirror. How do I look?”

Deacon turned to face her. His wasteland camo was a little too large on her, fitting snugly only at her hips. The matted wig she’d tucked her long hair into was slightly askew.

“Needs practice.” He adjusted the wig, evening the hairline. The clothing fit kind of helped the image, on second thought. “Just needs a little jushing-”

“A little what?” Charmer took a step back when he knelt and scooped up a handful of dirt, rubbing it into his palms. 

“Hold still.” Deacon gently clapped his hands on either side of her face, sending a cloud of dust and dirt around her cheeks. Charmer visibly flinched, but didn’t slap at him like he’d expected. He smudged the dirt around on her face. “There we go. _ Au naturel. _”

She gave him another one of those looks she cast him when he said something she hadn’t expected from a wastelander. “I’m amazed you know how to say that.” 

“You see enough Miss Nannies, you pick up on a few things. Okay. Give me your best scavver.”

“_ Get away from this pile of garbage, it’s mine!” _

The smile that cracked across his features was at odds with his attempted tone. “I’m serious. No kidding around. We’re seeing how good you are at this, not testing your sense of humor - which is steadily improving, if you’re asking.”

Charmer took in a deep breath, then exhaled, shaking her limbs. “Alright, alright.” There was a little wrinkle in her brow as she thought - he could almost see the gears turning. Not ideal. Then, the change took place - her posture went slacker, back a little hunched. Her eyes darted about, scanning exits and entrances and scanning over piles of rubble. 

Deacon picked up the umpire helmet on the ground and placed it on. “What’s your purpose in Diamond City?” He quizzed her, putting on his best Boston accent and hoping the way the helmet muffled his voice also muffled how downright giddy he was. This was his favorite part of the job. If she was any good at this, he had a partner in crime. The possibilities were endless.

Instead of answering immediately, she heaved her pack off the ground to drop it at his feet. “Scrap.” 

He prodded the sack with his toe. Charmer lunged forward instinctively, nearly baring her teeth. 

“It’s good scrap. Don’t break it.” She tugged at the pack’s strap and hoisted it over her shoulder with a grunt. Well, she had the mouthbreathing thing down. Deacon patted her on the back.

“You’re like a molerat-human hybrid. Perfect. I’m going in through the guard entrance, you’re going in through the front door. Sell some of that shit at Myrna’s, stop at the Dugout Inn and get a bottle of that ‘best’ moonshine, and grab a couple bowls of noodles before heading to the abandoned part of the stands. If you don’t get recognized, I’ll drink the moonshine. If you do, you’ve gotta down it. I’ll be watching.”

Charmer’s disgust was palpable. “You’re diabolical.”

“Haven’t seen anything yet, sweets.” Deacon gave her a mock salute. “See you on the other side.”

The game was almost up at the gate. Danny Sullivan squinted at her for what was certainly too long, but when she started babbling about the wonderful minutiae of her scrap collection he quickly tuned out and waved her through. Well. Boring them to death was a valid approach, he supposed.

Diamond City’s crowds were easier to blend into. He caught her glancing from officer to officer, trying to figure out where he was, no doubt. Deacon couldn’t help but chuckle at her efforts. With Dogmeat being puppysat by a ‘friend’ (he was tempted to drop in on Nick and see if Charmer’s statement about the dog being fond of the old synth was true), her chances of picking him out when he truly wanted to disappear were minuscule.

She made it to Myrna’s without a fuss. He overhead the usual spiel - _ no synths, no service - _ and quelled the anger that rose up so often whenever he had to make a detour to Diamond City, home of bigots who thought a wall and good old fashioned discrimination could keep them safe. The haggling display Charmer put on was laying it on a little thick, but hey - it was in character. 

The Dugout Inn would be the true test. Close quarters, not too many people, and owners whose job it was to know their clientele. _ Where everybody knows your name, and all that. _ He waited a few moments before following her in and quickly perched himself behind a support column.

“Another whiskey for the road.” Rumbled a familiar tone. 

Nick fucking Valentine.

_ Luck of the draw, kid. _ Deacon poked out from around the column. He had to see this. 

Nick Valentine had a stool pulled up to the bar and was slowly putting his case file back into its folder. Dogmeat was pacing beneath the bar, gobbling up whatever bar snacks had been dropped on the floor. _ Double whammy _.

Charmer approached the bar and did her best to pitch her voice an octave or two deeper, adding in a smoker’s rasp. “Moonshine. The bottle.”

He had to give her points for effort, but even three words were too much. From his post leaning against the column, he could see Valentine’s head turn, painted silicone brows furrowing in thought. Dogmeat whined. This was it.

Until Dogmeat sniffed in exactly the _ wrong _ direction. Deacon did his best to try and shoo the dog away, distract him, but it was no use - the German Shepard’s tail was set to wagging as he trotted over, taking Valentine’s attention with it.

The detective’s expression soured. Nick tossed a couple caps on the counter and left his shot of whiskey. “You know, I’ve been introduced to every guard here, but I don’t think we’ve met.” He began, in that noir drawl of his. _ Fuck. _Deacon didn’t know how Nick knew - maybe he’d been kitted out with infrared or something. Or maybe it was just a detective’s intuition. It bruised Deacon’s ego, but knowing Nick had an odd century to perfect his skills made the blow hurt a little less.

Deacon watched as Charmer downed Nick’s whiskey shot when no one was looking and winked at him over Nick’s shoulder before making her escape. She was halted in her tracks when Nick held up a hand without looking backward.

“Maybe you’ll introduce me to your friend here.”

The look on Charmer’s face was priceless.

A few minutes later they were sitting across from Valentine at his desk, like a couple of kids called up to the principal’s office. Dogmeat was happily chewing at a bone at Valentine’s feet.

“You’re lucky I caught you.” Smoke trailed out from between Nick’s lips and out of the hole in his throat as he spoke. “If security found out-”

“I am security.” Deacon interjected before Charmer could speak, pulling a new identity together on the fly. “Well. Not yet. I just…” He looked to her at his right helplessly. “... I’ve always wanted to live here. Get a job in security. Blue said she could help me out, that we could practice a little before I applied.”

“That so?” Nick tapped the ash from his cigarette, amber eyes on Charmer.

Trying to pull a con on Nick Valentine was probably one of the dumber things Deacon had done in his life, but telling the truth was far more dangerous. Placing bets on the man’s goodwill with Charmer was by far the safer option, even if Deacon came out looking like an idiot.

“We’ve been practicing in Bunker Hill, mostly. I’d dress up like this, try to steal something or just… get up to mischief, and see if he could stop me.” Charmer looked suitably embarrassed - the embarrassment _ was _ genuine, even if her cover story wasn’t. Deacon felt himself puff up with pride as she rolled with the story, just as she had with Desdemona. “I told him we could do one last trial run in Diamond City, get him in the armor, make him comfortable before going in for training.”

“I have real bad test anxiety.” Deacon piped up.

Nick was expressionless, shifting his attention between each of them at seemingly calculated intervals. It was deeply unnerving. No wonder even the bigots of Diamond City put up with him - he was _ exceedingly _ good at his job.

“Your friend is an idiot.” Nick said at last, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. Those glowing eyes were all Charmer’s now, and Deacon was happy to be released from their piercing stare. “I’ll cut you some slack. You’re dealing with a lot. Just… if you’re going to be playing pretend, do it in a way that won’t end up with me having to bail you out of jail. The world’s dangerous enough out there without you inviting in more trouble. There’s better ways to keep your mind off things.” The detective leaned back in his chair and sighed, concern clearly etched on his ruined features.

There was something unspoken. The corner of Charmer’s mouth twitched. She dropped her gaze to the desk. Valentine looked as if he was about to say something more, but promptly decided against it.

“I’d ask your name, but I don’t think I’d get the answer.” Valentine’s attention was back on him. Deacon never went out of his way to meet the detective, and he was fast remembering why. The man _ knew _ people. He’d ask for tips if he didn’t know he’d have to give information as payment.

Deacon simply shrugged in response.

“Kids.” Valentine murmured. “Do me a favor and get that outfit off as fast as you’re able to, alright?” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know I look a frightful sight, but a friend of...”

Charmer had looked up suddenly, a plea in her eyes. Nick nodded in silent understanding, pivoting from where he was initially going.” … a friend of Dogmeat’s is a friend of mine. No hard feelings. Just be safe out there.” 

This was unfamiliar territory. Deacon was used to people either knowing what he was, or having no idea. This middle ground, the hovering suspicion, the dancing around it - it was a strange mix of exhilarating and uncomfortable. Though to tell the truth, at this moment he was more preoccupied with the relationship between the synth detective and Charmer. Seeing how they could have a conversation just through looks, how utterly unguarded she was...

It was curious. And if he was being honest (a rarity, to be true), it was enviable. Deacon had grasped that kind of connection, once - to see it play out in front of him again, well. That was yet another line of thought to be locked away, another casualty of the constant battle to remain sane in a world that was very much _ not _.

“Of course.” Deacon slowly pushed his chair back - and at a lack of protest from Valentine, he and Charmer beat a hasty retreat.

\--

The abandoned stands were littered with debris. Not just the detritus left from a nuclear war and two hundred ensuing years of neglect, but paraphernalia left over from Diamond City’s youth. A bullet hole here and there, scribbled graffiti - dicks, mostly, but the occasional heart encircling initials, hieroglyphs of short lived romance. Empty packs of cigarettes and fancy-lads, shattered bottles of Nuka-Cola and Bobrov’s best. Charmer’s matted wig had joined the rest of them - she and Deacon had declared it cursed.

They’d decided to split the bottle of moonshine. They both seemed to need it, after all. It tasted about as awful as he remembered. In the thinnest of silver linings, at least the alcohol made it feel a bit less cold outside.

He felt a bit like a teenager again, leaning back in his seat with his feet kicked up on the row in front of him, passing a bottle of whatever alcohol they’d swiped for the day back and forth, ears ringing from a scolding. That short window of time before he’d fallen in with the Deathclaws, when the world seemed to stretch out before him.

He washed that thought away with a gulp of moonshine. “All things considered, that went pretty well.” Deacon passed the bottle back to Charmer. “I think my mouth’s gone numb, too, so this really isn’t that bad.”

Charmer shuddered when she took her required sip. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it up to Nick.” Deacon wasn’t sure if her wince was from the alcohol or from guilt.

“You don’t have to - ugh, fuck, I think I breathed some of it in.” He felt tears spring to his eyes and wiped at his nose. The conga line of embarrassment knew no limits. “You don’t have to make it up to him. I don’t think you could do anything to piss him off, honestly.”

“Think so?” The corner of her mouth quirked upward into a half-smile. “Hm. I’m trying not to, either way.” She held the bottle contemplatively in her hands. “Guess I make a pretty shitty scavver.”

“Only if we stumble across a synth detective with oh, eighty plus years in the work force. I think you’ll be alright.” 

They’d people-watched from the stands for the next several minutes, making up backstories for the city dwellers below. Deacon had started to take two sips for every one of Charmer’s, fast realizing that a couple hundred years on ice did wonders for eliminating one’s tolerance for alcohol. With a few hours of daylight left, they emptied the bottle at last.

“Look at me.” Charmer murmured. “Day drunk. I feel like I’m in college again.” By the hazy contentment on her face, she certainly didn’t think it was a problem.

“It’s five o’ clock somewhere.” He couldn’t say he was _ drunk _, exactly, but he was hovering somewhere in the realm of comfortably buzzed. “You know…” he began, searching for his next words carefully. “I'm used to flying solo. But I gotta admit, working with you makes me think I've been missing out. “

“Never had a partner?” Charmer rested her chin in her hands, peering at him. Her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. He forgot how old she was, sometimes. She hadn’t had an upbringing in the wastes to sand her down, there was still an energy - a hope - behind her eyes that people a decade her junior lacked.

“Not for a long time.” It was tempting to continue on, to tell her the thoughts that had been rattling around in his brain. Instead, he went for his final lesson. “It’s hard, you know. Being a synth.”

The sympathy that flooded her features made him feel a little guilty about the hustle he was about to play on her. But only a little. 

“It’s true. It’s what makes the job so easy - they did the memory wipe on me, but the new identity didn’t take. So I just keep on making things up. Sometimes I think some identity will finally stick, but they never do.” Okay, maybe he was laying it on a little thick.

Charmer’s eyes scanned his face, so guileless that it affirmed where he was going with this. This was probably the most important lesson. She caught on to his little lies, usually - but she couldn't comprehend the idea of a big one. She trusted him - and she should, he’d no intention of ever steering her wrong beyond a few harmless jokes. But out in the Commonwealth - in the Railroad, even - people would use that trust. Charmer was pre-war, back when honor and ethics meant something. 

So this was fine, really.

“I’ve been meaning to give you this.” He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. “It’s my recall code. You ever really, really need to find out information about the Institute, use it and I’ll answer whatever you ask. It uh. Will probably melt my brain in the process, though, so. Only if you really, really need it.” 

Charmer tried to refuse it when he offered it to her. “What? No! What if someone else finds it? What if people think it’s a joke?” 

Her distress was endearing. Or maybe he was just a little drunk.

Just a little drunk.

“Look. Someone has to have it. Might as well be you. Just promise me you won’t use it until you have to.”

“I’ll never have to. Nothing is worth that.” Charmer shoved the piece of paper into the bottom of her pack. 

This was going to be a long con, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the insensitive Deacon talk is coming at (some) point. This chapter is a bit of a doozy but it felt weird to break it up! Nick/Sole Survivor is my other diehard Fallout 4 ship and some of that leaked in here woops. Thanks for sticking with.


	6. Friendship is a Long Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charmer surprises him. Deacon surprises himself.

The con went on longer than he’d thought. Honestly, the longest it ever took anyone was a day. Come nightfall, curiosity would get the better of his target and they’d unfold the paper to steal a glimpse only to find out they’d been had.

The first night, when they dozed comfortably in HQ, she hadn’t even opened up her pack. They spent two weeks traipsing around Boston and the surrounding area, gathering scrap for Tinker Tom and (in Charmer’s case, since Deacon refused to go anywhere close to the edge) setting up a couple of MILAs. In all that time, she took the paper out of her pack  _ once _ , and that was to stick it in a waterproof container they’d picked up.

He’d give it a month.

In the meantime, he kept himself occupied. Charmer seemed to have a billion favors to do in between their work for the Railroad, taking them across the Commonwealth. It was perfect for his line of work - there were always rumors to overhear, strangers to greet, newcomers to quiz. Deacon found it felt more like play than work, in her company. He figured it was seeing the job through new eyes, hell, seeing the  _ Commonwealth _ through new eyes. 

In the city, she usually left Dogmeat in Nick’s care (it was far too dangerous, in her opinion). They’d slipped through the ruins of Boston, putting Charmer’s new found knowledge of its hidden paths to good use. They’d scribbled down rail signs and, on occasion, Charmer tried to snipe down a few distant targets. She was still a terrible shot, but she was getting better. That was enough. 

True to her word, she’d dipped into every library, book store, and electronics boutique she could find as they moved through the city. Their book collection was steadily growing - what had begun as a stack between their mattresses in HQ was turning into a small fence, organized by genre. The search for movie holotapes was less successful - usually the film had been exposed to sunlight if not otherwise disintegrated with age - but that didn’t stop Charmer from taking intact bits and pieces from the projectors they’d stumbled across.

For their excursions to the greater Commonwealth, Charmer dipped in to Nick’s office to retrieve Dogmeat. Deacon had given his best smiles to the detective in a vain attempt to smooth over the speedbump of a first impression he’d made. Valentine never seemed convinced, but with each returning visit his treatment of Deacon warmed. 

It was for this and a few other reasons that their camping trips, as Deacon liked to call them, were his favorite. The adrenaline of the city, the haunting sight of peak old world glory above them - that was one thing. But nothing could beat the calm wilderness. At night it glimmered - the skeletal trees framed in frost, a thin blanket of snow on the ground reflecting the light, the Milky Way sprayed above them in an inky black sky. Sometimes colored lights danced in it - Aurora Borealis, Charmer told him. It was radiation from the sun and stars, she told him. That something so terrible could be so beautiful gave him an odd feeling inside.

The nights shivering were worth the ones spent cozied up in an abandoned ruin while firelight danced upon them. Out in the country, he felt - not like he could be himself, exactly - but he felt the echoes of an older time, before he was Deacon. Keeping up appearances was less of a priority in the wilderness. Out here, they were just a little bit safer. Out here, he could let things feel  _ real _ .

They’d read books by the fire in that breath of time between dinner and sleep. Charmer was one for the classics, spending her time slowly forging through a massive Dostoyevsky novel. She said so many people joked about it being large that she felt it was a personal mission to get through it. By the look on her face, the contents were engrossing enough to make it far from a chore. 

Deacon had his histories to keep him company, in the form of old textbooks and intact newspapers. Sometimes he’d ask her about the past, if she was in a good mood. What it was like to drive a car. (Terrifying, it sounded like.) How bad the television was. (More propaganda than entertainment, near the end.) If she was acting more Blue than Charmer, he’d tell her of whatever entertaining happenstance he’d read about from the  _ very _ distant past. 

January dragged to a close.

As time went by, the dark circles under her eyes lightened. She ate more, her gaunt cheeks starting to fill back in. The grateful expressions of the settlers she helped, and Tinker Tom’s explanation of how their work was helping the Railroad, seemed to breathe new life into her. 

In their time spent together, Deacon saw that Charmer felt  _ everything _ . She couldn’t leave an old terminal be when they were exploring. He had watched her eyes start to water when reading old entries, seen her laugh at angry mail exchanges, witnessed fury spark in her after poring over experimental logs. It made him a little nervous, how easily she could be affected. Others’ happiness uplifted her, their sorrow crushed her. Deacon made a point of ensuring she couldn’t be dragged downward, always ready with some witty remark.

Maybe that was why Valentine seemed to be softening towards him - in Deacon’s time with Charmer, she only improved. 

It wasn’t his doing, though. He wasn’t helping with anything she couldn’t do herself, just… giving things a little push along. It kept her operating at her best. The Railroad needed their people at their best.

Charmer deserved to be at her best.

Still, even when happiest there was an underrunning anxiousness to her. Hard to forget the son she was chasing - harder still when it seemed she’d run out of leads. At least, he assumed so - given that she hadn’t asked anything of him or the Railroad. His mind was kept occupied trying to find leads for her, keeping his ear to the ground.

Deacon had almost forgotten about the paper he’d given her when, during her nightly ritual of reorganizing the weight distribution in her pack after they’d had dinner for the night, Charmer realized the container that held his ‘recall code’ had broken open.

Her sudden gasp and panicked pleas had him on edge before he realized exactly what she was panicking about. The folded paper was held in her hands, damp enough that he could see that the ink he’d written in had smudged. Dogmeat raised his head from where he’d been sleeping next to her, sniffing at the air.

At last, the chickens had come home to roost. 

“I’m going to have to see if it’s still legible.” Charmer was apologetic and antsy. She held the paper as far away from the fire as she could manage, as if it could grow wings and fly into the flames. Satisfied that all was well, Dogmeat rested his head on his paws once more.

Deacon kept his face expressionless as she unfolded the paper. She scanned the hastily written line - still legible, though smudged. Once, twice she reread it. Her brow wrinkled when she looked up.

“You’re a jackass.”

“I’m not laughing. I think that wins me a few points.” 

The piece of paper was tossed into the fire. Charmer uncapped one of the beers they’d found in the day’s exploration without offering one to him, contrary to their usual custom.

“Come on, Charms.”

“That wasn’t funny.” Her scowl didn’t budge as she drank. Deacon threw his hands into the air in resignation.

“Look. I lie to everyone. Don’t take it personally.” That didn’t help at all. He sighed. “I figured you’d take a peek right after I gave it to you. Most people do.”

“Most people don’t care if they might kill you?” Charmer, while skeptical, couldn’t hide the concern in her eyes. She slid a beer over to him, face softening. “... after this stunt, I’m starting to see why.” she added with a playful tinge. It was straight out of his own book, soften things with a joke. Was she mirroring him on purpose?

The cap of his beer nearly flew into the flames when he finally got it off. He sucked away the foam before it could spill all over his jeans. “Yeah, seems like the Institute went and broke everyone’s funny bone around here.” He smacked his lips appreciatively. Beer was just enough - didn’t set his throat on fire and softened the edges of his thoughts in the gentlest of ways. “Maybe I’m a synth with no memories who gets his kicks testing people’s patience. Maybe I’m just another human who has people he wants to protect by making sure no one knows too much. Does it matter?”

Charmer studied his eyes. No, not his eyes - the sunglasses. She asked him if he ever took them off after the first few days of travelling together, he told her no, and she hadn’t addressed the subject since. He wondered if she’d try to snatch them off of his face like Glory did once upon a time, but she never did.

“Whatever, or whoever you are...” she began before taking a long pull from her beer.

Deacon felt a strange tightening in his chest as he waited for her to finish. Why did he care?

Charmer sat the drink down at her side. “... you’re good in my book.” 

He wasn’t sure if that was the answer he wanted to hear. It wasn’t the answer he deserved. Deacon swallowed thickly, gathering his thoughts. It was for incidents like these that he wore his sunglasses - he could keep his face frozen, but his eyes always betrayed him.

Her eyes betrayed her, too. There was warmth in them, but it was a careful one. Cautious. This wasn’t how he’d wanted the lesson to go. But it was, he wanted her to be skeptical of everyone, even himself, didn’t he? It was safest. Even though he wished he had a way to bottle the light her eyes held when she believed him. Even if her justified caution gave him feelings of hurt mixed with pride.

The sudden realization hit him - Charmer was his  _ friend _ . He wanted everything that came with it, whether he was worthy of it or not, whether it was safe or not.   
  
“I want-” Deacon caught himself. Too close to throwing himself off the cliff. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he wished he deserved her friendship, that it was ill-placed. Wanted to explain the truth, even the balance of knowledge between them. Then he imagined those warm eyes of hers turning cold.

He cleared his throat.  _ Coward _ . “Sorry. Carbonation.” A wiggle of the beer bottle in his hands. A tip he’d learned long ago - keep your hands busy. Give yourself an excuse to pause, to walk things back. 

“Listen, Charmer. If you believe anything I say, you can believe this: I’m in your corner.” It made Charmer pause mid-sip. The woman across the fire from him was looking more like the woman he’d seen rise from the vault by the day, and yet she was so much different. Part of him had begun to wish he’d said something then, done more than make sure she didn’t get a laser to the gut from Sanctuary’s Mr. Handy. He wished he’d listened to the nagging guilt he felt at leaving her to discover the wastes herself. “Always have been.”

The unsaid hung in the air. A conversation in silence, like he’d observed Valentine share with her. It was his gentle admission - yes, he’d followed her.  _ Stalked her, some could say. _ Charmer looked appreciative rather than betrayed, happy he felt comfortable letting her in on this one small thing. He’d let her discover to what extent he’d followed her on her own, but for now he embraced this little truth, however shameful it was.  _ Small steps. _

Deacon changed the tone of the conversation, in the way that people only really noticed if they thought too hard about it after the fact. “That code I gave you is a hard truth.” He was the mentor again, stern as he could manage. “Everybody lies. And sometimes, no matter how sincere someone seems, they could be a synth plant by the Institute.”

Charmer relaxed. They were in clear waters now - back to business. At last she understood the point of this whole exercise. A warm wave of relief washed over him.

“The problem is sorting the majority of the time people are truthful from the moments they lie. But those moments count for a lot.” he finished, happy for the chance to take several gulps of his beer.

“I used to work as a professional liar, you know.” Charmer took him by surprise. “Professional persuader, some tried to call it.” Her fingers tapped on the bottle. “The whole world was a lie back then, you know? A show, pretending like…” An arm swept over the ruined house they took refuge in. “... all this wasn’t about to happen. They wanted us paranoid, looking for spies next door. Just a great big house of cards waiting to fall down. I couldn’t live like that anymore, so I quit my dream job and became something I swore I never would. ”

_Pushed too far, _he thought. Dez was going to kill him. Still, he didn’t interrupt. If he just lost the Railroad their best bet at survival because of his relationship with the truth - if he just lost the first person he’d begun to consider a friend in a _long_ time - he was at least going to get a good fucking pre-war story out of it.

She paused for a drink. “Coming here - to the Commonwealth, I mean - I see why we started lying. As a species. Fiction has its uses. It papers over the cracks we can’t fix, helps to make things a little brighter when we need it. I don’t mind that you lie.” Charmer was watching him as if she expected him to bolt. “Just promise me something, okay?”

“Yeah, boss?” Deacon asked like she was only going to tell him to do the dishes.

“Tell me the truth when it matters.” 

Charmer had granted him the power to decide how to define ‘when it matters’. It didn’t help his nerves, however much he appreciated it. There were a few things that mattered he was keeping close to his chest.

“Does this mean you’re putting an end to my unique curriculum?” Deacon ventured. He couldn’t say yes, couldn’t make that promise just yet. In the future, though? Maybe. He held to that thought.

“Jackass.” Charmer grinned. It didn’t seem to bother her. Storm weathered.

“I’m taking that as a no.” Deacon drained the rest of his beer and flopped down on his bedroll. “Which is a good thing, because the alternative is a daily schedule of mandatory readings from the U.S. Covert Ops Manual, and I only have the copy on facepaint fundamentals.”

“Guess I’m taking first watch, then.”

“You got it, pal.” Somehow he was exhausted.

_ You’re getting too old for this. _


	7. Ticonderoga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopes climb higher.

Deacon had been looking forward to their next check-in at HQ. A night of rest without worrying about keeping watch, the chance to offload his intel to PAM, a Fancy Lad Snack Cake or six. Travelling with Charmer was the highlight of, well - the past several years, but his stops at HQ were a ritual that offered some sort of structure to his life. Even he had to admit that a little structure was key to keeping sane.

What was _ supposed _ to be a day of rest and bothering whatever agents were in earshot was promptly shot to pieces when Drummer Boy ran up to the two of them with a nervous “Carrington’s looking for you.”

_ Shit. _

It turned out to be better than he’d expected, though. In between the veiled insults (Time for them to make themselves useful? Was Carrington blind?) the good doctor had given Charmer her first _ official _ job.

A package run. Here she’d finally see what they were about in the flesh, see the results of her behind-the-scenes work with her own eyes.  
  
Somehow Charmer took Carrington’s bristly personality in stride. In fact, she seemed _ comfortable _ with it. Even when she asked him why he’d doubted her and he gave it to her straight. Even when he expressed his frustration with Desdemona.

“Could’ve let me know I didn’t have to mind my manners a long time ago.” Deacon drawled while they sloshed through the water of HQ’s back exit. “I’ve always thought Carrington’s rudeness was his secret to surviving this long. Third most senior member. Pft.”

“You were right, Carrington is an asshole. That’s a good thing. If everyone thought I was god’s gift to the Railroad, that’d be a bad sign. ‘Sides, I think his heart’s in the right place. You need someone to be the bad guy and make the hard choices.” Charmer adjusted her pack’s position on her shoulders with a grunt. 

“He lives for the Railroad, that’s true. Damn good at his job. But he’s got an ego problem.” He gave her pack a little nudge into position, earning a thankful nod. 

“Pot calling kettle much?” Charmer teased.

“Point taken.”

With February’s entrance onto the scene, snow and biting wind was replaced with driving rainstorms. Though it was technically warmer than it had been the month previous, the humidity didn’t make it feel like it.

“We really should spring for more indoor dead drops.” Deacon shivered, holding the post box open for Charmer to dive into.

“Or an umbrella.” Her voice echoed from within the metal container. Eventually her upper half popped out of the post box, a holotape in hand.

They’d listened to it sheltered under an intact store awning and huddled close. After weeks of travelling together, personal bubbles had shrunk considerably. Space was a luxury that often wasn’t afforded them when it came to makeshift and foreign lodgings. It didn’t help that his frame was a decent windbreak, seeing as how he was a few inches taller than her. This close, he could see strands of hair starting to turn grey at the crown of her head. Stress, or age?

“Carrington wasn’t kidding about going in on little information, huh?” Charmer mused, holotape ejecting from her pip-boy into her palm.

“If you ever tell him he’s right, we’ll never live it down.” Deacon spoke as if he hadn’t just had his mind elsewhere.

The trip to Bunker Hill was a short one, made shorter by their attempts to sprint from shelter to shelter and get out of the rain as fast as possible.“Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a lot of… jobs are run here.” she’d muttered when they crossed the main gate. “Seeing as how you’re so familiar with the area.”

“I’m familiar with plenty of places that aren’t exactly kind to the cause too, you know.” he’d replied.

The exchange with Stockton was brief. The old man’s nerves were setting Charmer on edge - she couldn’t help but pick up on them. Still, she played the game - speaking in hypotheticals and vagueries, never using words that might prick unfriendly ears.

“So how long are you going to let me do the talking?” she asked after they’d walked away. Deacon caught snippets of a caravaneer talking about Old Pegg near the brahmin pen.

“Just because you’re doing official stuff now doesn’t mean that training’s over. Besides - you’re the one named Charmer, here.” he snorted. They moved quickly to Savoldi’s for a quick shot of whatever the hell was on hand to warm themselves. Of course this had to be a nighttime pickup.

Gin happened to be the drink of the day. Charmer had started telling him about old cocktails that used it when they’d overheard an outfitter’s caravan down the way. Some haggling on Deacon’s part and they’d traded a military ammo bag and a few bottles of purified water for some rain jackets.

With alcohol to numb the cold and jackets to keep them from getting drenched any further, they were as ready as they’d ever be for a night run. 

Not for the first time, Deacon felt like they belonged in a comic book. Charmer had Deliverer in hand, glistening in the rain. The falling droplets scattered the moonlight, the world cast into hard contrast and inky shadows. A couple of secret agents sneaking around on a stormy night.

Charmer dropped into a crouch when they drew close to the pick up point. Deacon followed suit. They couldn’t make out anything beyond a small bell tower. A church. 

He could hear Charmer’s smirk in her whisper. “If I find a caps stash in the confessional, does this mean I get to take your name?”

“Whoa there. I’m not looking for a Mrs. Deacon, thank you very much. It’d disappoint all my adoring fans.” Deacon murmured in reply. A flash of lightning illuminated their surroundings - revealing that a gang of five or so raiders had set up shop in the church.

“Yeah, all zero of them.” He heard the _ click _ as she turned the safety off of Deliverer. “I’m going to try and slip in the side door. You ready?”

“Time for dress rehearsal.” Deacon unclipped a grenade from his belt. “Let’s go.”

The explosion from the grenade took out three of the raiders, clustered too close together and unable to react in time. He ducked behind cover as the survivors realized they were attacked and began to fire in his general direction. In the chaos, Charmer slipped in through one of the church’s side doors and took out the survivors.

It didn’t take long for Stockton to appear.

The synth in tow was a young, nervous looking man of the designation H2-22. His hair was messy, wet strands stuck to his face. Immediately Deacon could see Charmer take a liking to the young man, ushering him under an intact part of church roof as soon as she could and asking if he needed some time to warm up. 

When Stockton departed, she began to ask H2 questions about the Institute. Deacon reflexively wondered if her caring demeanor was just meant to drop the man’s guard and get him talking. He hated himself for thinking so, for that being his immediate answer.

H2-22’s insights were nothing he hadn’t heard before. Another person enslaved by the Institute, treated like a machine and toiling away in maintenance tunnels. It was probable he’d never seen the sky until recently. 

It was H2-22’s admission that someone on the inside had helped him out of the Institute that caught Charmer’s attention, however. For a brief moment it seemed like she was going to contest H2’s refusal to speak of his savior further - her body quivered from a rush of adrenaline, a muscle tensed in her jaw. Instead, she turned to Deacon. A manic, mad hope was clear in her eyes, even in the darkness.

Her son.

It was easy to forget. Charmer refused to speak of him, avoided the subject of family and children like the plague when it came up. His capture by the Institute was somewhat common knowledge by now, thanks to Piper. Deacon didn’t blame her for seeming to regret the interview. It was enough to see her face fall whenever they’d passed a ruined crib, found a discarded toy on the ground. Reminders were painful.

No wonder the revelation of Patriot’s existence (if not his name) was like a shot in the arm for her. Even if they never found the Institute, there was someone on the other side she could contact. 

Deacon frowned in thought, recalling how terminals never seemed to be an issue for her.

Maybe Patriot _ was _ her son. Was a talent for terminals genetic? He’d heard her sob on Valentine’s shoulder in the Memory Den, heard a muffled remark about wasted years. Her boy was older now than the babe she’d told Piper about, that much he’d deduced.

It made sense. Another theory to be filed away. He returned Charmer’s look with a reassuring smile.

High Rise arrived before she could interrogate H2 further. With Deliverer in hand, she’d stared the agent down until he’d given her the countersign.

_ Making an old man proud. _ He thought to himself as they exchanged greetings and questions. Deacon was brought out of his thoughts when High Rise exclaimed his name.

“Deacon? That you? Barely recognized you with the new face.” 

Charmer’s expression was wonderful. “Wait - that wasn’t another…”

“You think I’d do that? Just tell lies?” Deacon mocked offense, clutching at his heart. 

High Rise chuckled. “This is the third face I’ve seen him on. I don’t know how he does it. Can’t be good for you. How long ‘til you’re due for another, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty fond of this one.” he rubbed at his stubble thoughtfully and found it impossible to ignore the strange expression on Charmer’s face.

“Don’t change it.” Her voice was soft. It wiped the smirk off of his face. She quickly added; “I’d probably end up shooting you by accident thinking you were a stranger or something.”

High Rise raised a brow and gave Deacon a squint. “You get used to it. The sunglasses never change.” The man cleared his throat. “Looks like the rain isn’t going to be letting up any time soon. Shit. Alright, H2, we’re getting you out of here. Stay by my side - these two agents are going to clear ahead for us. Stockton tell you what to do if things go sideways?”

H2 had been silent for their exchange, and apparently wasn’t going to change that any time soon. He nodded.

“Good. Shouldn’t come to that, don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” High Rise canted his head to Charmer. “Lead the way.”

Deacon hadn’t realized when the subtle shift of Charmer being the one in charge had begun. He liked it. Less focus on him - and someone like her deserved to be the one calling the shots. They didn’t make ‘em like her anymore.

The group slipped down alleys, thankful for the covering sound of the rain (if not the discomfort brought with it). Where they’d come across raiders in their path, they timed their shots with peals of thunder to avoid alerting more than they needed.

High Rise was stressed, Deacon could tell by the way he had a white knuckle grip on his gun. Ticon was chosen for usually being low traffic. Times were changing - seemed like a raider convention had set up in town. 

H2 on the other hand was dealing with things pretty well. After escaping the Institute, a few pot shots from raiders were probably pretty low stress. Or maybe a death at their hands was better than a live trapped in maintenance tunnels. 

Somehow they made it to Ticon in peace. High Rise let out a low whistle once they’d crossed the bridge leading to the safehouse. The rain still hadn’t let up. 

“You heavies really don’t fuck around, do you?” he observed, jogging for Ticon’s cover immediately. By the time Deacon and the others caught up High Rise had already hit the button for the elevator. “As thankful as I am for the weather making the job easy, I’m looking forward to getting inside.”

“Ticon’s got _ heating _.” Deacon leaned over to stage whisper to Charmer. She looked absolutely delighted.

High Rise puffed up with pride. “Got the vents cleaned out and the generator in the basement running. If she had a more hidden entrance we’d probably be using her as HQ.” The elevator opened with a _ ding _, and the four crowded inside. 

H2 kept to the corner, staring at his feet. Being around Glory, it was easy to forget the terror escaped synths held at first, the ingrained habit of obedience. Deacon knew what happened to the ones who started getting a personality. Memory wipes weren’t just for the refugee’s safety - they were for their sanity, too.

Deacon’s thoughts had distracted him. He hastily tuned back in to the conversation at hand.

“... got a change of clothes and a warm meal for you guys, too. If you want to stick around until the storm’s over, my doors are open. Deacon tell you we’ve got a cribbage board?” High Rise grinned at Charmer.

“All of that sounds amazing.” Charmer sighed happily. 

“I’d say we could play poker, but there’s a rule about letting Deacon anywhere near a game.” High Rise chuckled. 

“I don’t see why I have to suffer because everyone else wears their heart on their sleeve.” Deacon huffed.

“You nearly bankrupted the Railroad.”

“I didn’t actually take my winnings, in case you’ve forgotten. I play for the joy of the game. You should count your blessings - at least it wasn’t strip poker.”

High Rise groaned. Charmer punched him lightly in the arm. Even H2 dared a smile.

“Crib. We’re playing crib.” Charmer insisted.

Later, with a belly full of brahmin stew and Charmer sitting across from him at the card table, Deacon had to admit that he could get used to this.

\--

Ticonderoga had an odd sort of peace to it. Up here, you didn’t see the gore and filth that covered the city streets. Up here, he could look out the window and catch the faintest shadow of what it would have been like before the war. It was late - near morning, in fact - the brief period of time he’d liked to call the blue hour. The few agents and synths puttering about had gone to sleep hours ago, rendering their surroundings silent. The towers were silent sentinels in a world turned blue.

Charmer noticed it, too. Deacon wasn’t expecting her to be up, but when he dipped down into one of the lower levels for a chance at proper seclusion he’d caught her looking out one of the windows. She was bathed in blue light, looking like she was made of porcelain. He stared longer than he should have, watched her fingertips play across the windowsill. Wondered at what was going through her mind as she looked out over the city as he had. 

“Hell of a view, huh.” He hated to break the spell, but he didn’t want to be a voyeur. Not to her. Charmer turned her head to look at him. The light danced across the wet streaks on her face, and she hurriedly wiped them away. 

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve been up high before, but you can’t really appreciate things when you’re in a firefight.” Her voice was hoarse, but she put on a brave face nevertheless. It didn’t feel right, seeing her like this. She seemed as fragile as the porcelain the moonlight made her, at odds with the woman he’d seen her be. 

Deacon had sealed his trauma away. Charmer seemed to accept it, to let it wash over her at times like this. He didn’t know if that was worse. Deacon pretended not to notice. “I know what you mean. Here it feels like - well. How it might have felt. Before.” Hesitantly, he stepped to her side. She didn’t move away, or seem to resent his presence. Her attention returned to the city below.  
  
They shared a companionable silence. The dispersing rain clouds drifted overhead, casting rippling shadows on the landscape below. He listened to her breathing slow, watched her posture relax.

“I used to live in a high rise.” Charmer began, voice so quiet it barely cut through the silence. “I worked at a law firm downtown. Was still starting out, so I wasn’t making big money, but I had enough for a place in the theatre district. Wasn’t fancy, but it had this big window… I’d catch shows on the weekends, grab takeout after and sit waiting for the sunrise. I was young, then - thought of all of the infinite possibilities. Thought I could change the world.” She chuckled humorlessly, letting her hands slip down from the windowsill.

_ A lawyer. Of course she was a lawyer. Professional liar, and all that. _ Deacon wanted to ask if she was criminal or civil, but he didn’t dare to say a word. Instead, he watched her from her reflection in the dusty glass. It was rare for her to talk about her past in this detail - that night she’d discovered his con was the first time. He didn’t want to screw this up. Most of what he knew of her, he knew without her permission - this was something she volunteered willingly, and something he’d never learn from all the eavesdropping in the world. 

“I always wanted a chaise lounge - like the one Irma’s got in the Memory Den. Something about collapsing down on one of those after a hard day… I had a flair for the dramatic.” Charmer smiled at him.

“Still do.” he teased gently, with a smile of his own. That got a weak chuckle out of her. Better than nothing.

“It made the tedium better. To pretend like there was something greater going on. That even the terrible parts of life were just the second act of the play, and that there’d be something to solve things right around the corner.” Charmer fiddled with a ring on her hand and frowned. “It was strange. I think we all knew the world was going to end, however much we tried to deny it. But instead of giving up, we all just moved faster. Some sort of shared swan song. Tried to scrape our lives into what we expected them to be before the end.”

Deacon turned his head from her reflection to look at her properly. He studied her face, tried to think of the right words to say. “Did you? Get life where you thought it should be?”

“Yeah.” Charmer breathed. Her eyes were watering again. “I think that was worse than just staying where I was before. I had something I didn’t want to lose, when the end was inevitable. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if I’d joined everyone else when the bombs fell. Just the flash of light, then...”

There was a beat of silence. 

Deacon placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You and I both know that’s not true.” His voice was low, closer to _ real _ than it had been in years. He shifted gears, like he always did when he drew too close to the man before the code name. “No one else puts up with my jokes.” That earned him a watery smile. Progress.

“That you had something at all was worth it, I think.” Deacon continued. He spoke slowly, words measured. “The pain’s terrible, but - what’s the phrase? You can’t know what light is without darkness? Even if you lose something, you had it once, and no one can take that from you.” Speaking from experience was toeing a dangerous line. He didn’t know if he was speaking to her or himself, but his words soothed her. That was what mattered. “No one can take your memory.”

“No, they can’t.” Charmer looked up at him, the turn of her head casting shadows across her face. A wave of adrenaline rushed through him when he realized how close they were standing to one another. Fight or flight. 

Charmer cleared her throat and took a breath, standing a little straighter. Bracing herself. “Deacon, can I tell you something?”

Alarm bells started in his head. Too close. He stepped away to rest his back against the window, a casual movement that put much needed space between the two of them. “All ears, pal.” 

“I said I wanted to join the Railroad for revenge against the Institute. That was true, but you and I both know I didn’t have to go through all this just for that. There’s a hundred different groups who want them dead, and most of them are a hell of a lot easier to find.” Charmer was watching him carefully. Trying to gauge his reaction.

This was a much better line of conversation than he’d suspected, but part of him felt strangely disappointed. He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “Sure are. But you made a point of looking for us. Which makes the Institute revenge thing pretty obviously not quite the _ whole _ story behind joining the club.” Deacon tilted his head, looking at her over his sunglasses. 

“I need to kill a Courser.” 

He nearly choked on his words. He hadn’t been expecting _ that _. 

Charmer was quick to continue with hurried justifications. “I swear, I believe in the Railroad. It’s the best chance the Commonwealth has of taking out the Institute, and you’re one of the few people who fucking _ care _ out here. I’m not trying to use you. I just - from what I’ve heard, I’m far out of my league here. If I fuck this up, I’m dead. I need help.”

“Charms.” Deacon started, cutting her off before she worked herself into a proper frenzy. “Every Courser dead is a blessing for us, no one’s going to side-eye you for that. But you saw what happened at Switchboard. That’s what Coursers do. It’ll take a hell of a lot of convincing to get everyone on board. Usually we shut down entirely the second we get a whiff of a few operating nearby, seeing as how Glory’s the only other heavy we have. Chasing a Courser goes against every procedure we have in place.” He expected to see her face fall as he spoke, but instead her expression only grew steelier. “Hunting one down is going to draw attention, and we’re going to lose people. That’s not a maybe, that’s a certainty. ”

“We’ve already done work that was meant for a strike team.” Charmer’s eyes bored into him, her voice rife with conviction. “The Railroad must know Coursers better than anyone. I need information, not bodies. With that, we can form a plan that doesn’t involve risking skins.”  
  
We. The sane part of Deacon bristled at it, at being thrown in on what was damn near a suicide mission. There was a voice of excitement overriding it, though - the idea of killing a Courser and enact some small amount of vengeance for the Switchboard was intoxicating. Moreover, Charmer had included him in this, trusted him enough to believe that together they’d find success. The feeling of friendship was mutual. That was enough to push him over the cliff.

“Okay.” he exhaled. Charmer lit up. “Fuck it.” His laugh had a manic edge to it. “We’re going to kill a Courser, just the two of us. Makes me sad there’s no new history books, because this would _ definitely _ be one for them. Just - one question. You don’t have to answer it, but I’d _ really _like to know. Why?”

A pause. Charmer wrung her hands nervously. “There’s a chip in their brains. I’ve been told it leads to the Institute’s base of operations.”

“Fuck’s sake, Charms, if you said that first…” Deacon’s laugh was a proper one now. “I mean, I appreciate a good convincing argument as much as anyone, but you didn’t have to do all that.”

Charmer looked at her feet, somewhat sheepish. “I didn’t know if you’d believe it. I’m not… entirely confident in my source, myself, but it’s my best bet.”

Deacon reached his hand out and nudged her chin upward, dropping his hand as soon as he drew her attention back. Personal space was growing to be less and less of a concept between them, and he suddenly found himself wanting to breach it as often as he could. _ Touch starved. _That was the phrase for what he was - what he’d become. Self inflicted. Time with Charmer was starting to chip that away.

“Don’t worry about it. The hard part’s going to be convincing Glory _ not _ to join us. Aside from yours truly, she’s the premiere Courser slaying expert we have, and you know she’s not just going to hold a lecture and send us on our way.” Deacon stepped away from her, walking backward to the ramp upstairs. “But don’t worry about it.” he repeated. “Step one is to get as much rest as you can. You’re _ really _ going to need it. I’ll see you in the morning.” He hazarded a glance at the slowly lightening horizon. “... or afternoon. Just grab me when you wake up.”

Charmer, however, turned back to the window. “I’ll be up in a bit. I just…”

“I’ll let you enjoy the view. But I’m not carrying your sleeping body back to HQ, so don’t take too long.”

“You got it, Dee.”

Deacon took in one last glance at her silhouetted form before heading back up.  
  
_ Good talk. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ticonderoga is one of my favorite places in the game and no I'm not over it. :(


	8. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charmer can't avoid her past. Deacon tries to hide her from it, nevertheless.

“You want to kill a Courser _ without me? _”

Glory was as infuriated as expected, her voice echoing through HQ’s main chamber. A few scattered agents were trying their best to sneakily gawk. Charmer looked to Deacon for help, and all he could offer was a limp shrug. Told her so.

“If this goes wrong, the Railroad loses all its heavies in one go.” Charmer tried her best to reason, hands outspread in a placating gesture. 

“It’ll _ absolutely _ go wrong if you don’t bring me along.” Glory countered. “I’m not going back to pulling weight on my own. If this is about the credit, or some other dumb shit-”

“Charmer’s right.” Desdemona cut in, a scowl written on her features. “We plan for failure. If her plan fails, we lose a heavy.” Deacon was aware of the glance Desdemona had cast his way. She’d seen him survive impossible odds, and it seemed she was certain he’d survive this too. He didn’t know if he should be flattered or horrified - either way, she vastly underestimated Charmer’s importance. If he had to die getting her out in one piece, so be it. “If Glory’s plan fails, we lose _ all _ of them.”

“The old trolley problem.” Deacon murmured under his breath. Charmer raised a brow in his direction - the face she made when he referred to such things was one he was growing increasingly fond of seeing. It was almost as good as the one she made after he said a terrible pun.

Glory wasn’t going down without a fight. “Then just send me. I’ve downed Coursers before.”

“Your _ highly effective _ combat techniques will tear the Courser apart. We want the chip intact. Besides, we need Charmer’s pip-boy to pick up on the frequency.” Deacon rested his hip against the planning table. “Sorry, Glory. Promise you get the next one.”

“Don’t go just yet. We still need you.” Charmer interrupted before Glory could push off the table. “You and Deacon are the only ones with experience against these things.”

Glory snorted, ego not quite massaged. “You couldn’t bother PAM about it?” 

“We tried. Apparently odds of success are too low to waste her time with.” Deacon drawled. “We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if Carrington was in, but thankfully he’s gone off for his monthly Asshole Club meeting.”

The look Glory gave the two of them was a rare one. _ Horror _. “Shit. You guys actually have a death wish. Well - fine. I’ll give you some tips.”

“Thank you, Glory.” Desdemona rubbed the bridge of her nose, squinting her eyes shut. “Now we can begin.”

“First things first - the fuckers have stealth boys. They’re fast, too, so if you’re relying on precision weaponry you’re going to have a really bad time. So you’re gonna want heavy weaponry, explosives - hell, a flamer or a molotov would work too. Something you don’t have to aim.” Glory punched her hand for effect.

Deacon shook his head. “Which will kill us in a close quarter fight. In that instance, we’re going to have to try and negate those advantages. Slow them down, disable them. Tom’s got a syringe rifle schematic we could put to use - get a good shot full of sedatives or nerve agent and they’re out like a light.”

“You have to aim that at a fast moving opponent who might be fucking invisible. Close quarters or not, that’s going to take time you don’t have. How many shots can we get? And how long does it take to reload? Those are seconds you can’t waste.” Glory’s voice was rising in volume again. Desdemona simply observed the debate, exhaustion radiating from her.

Deacon was about to retort when Charmer caught his attention. Her face had gone pale, expression blank, and she was gripping the table with white knuckles. “Charms?”

She withdrew her hands from the table in a flash. Deacon had jolted her from her thoughts - and when she voiced them, he wondered what had caused such an expression. “Are Coursers affected by cold?”

“They’re Gen 3s. Bleeding, breathing, thinking. Human, basically. Fuck yeah, we feel the cold.” Glory’s nose wrinkled the way it did when she was confused. “What are you playing at?”

“We freeze them. I know something that could do that, it’s a prototype some pre-war scientists were working on. I couldn’t bust the lock at the time, but I’ve done some practicing since then.” Charmer was keeping her expression carefully neutral. Her voice was more stilted than usual, but subtly so. Deacon figured he’d be the only one to notice. 

Tinker Tom, silent at the table until now, perked up. “They had cyro tech all figured out back in the day. A little bit of fiddling, and you could totally size it down. You’d probably need liquid nitrogen canisters or something for ammo though, and that shit is _ rare _. If we could find a lab still intact we could synthesize some extras, or I could-” Tom broke into a smile that signalled he had a spark of inspiration - or madness. With him they came hand in hand. “-I’m going to have to run some numbers.”

“It was in a case with a few canisters.” Charmer continued. It was as if she was reading from a book, narrating facts with complete detachment. “I can test it, but I think it’ll be enough.”

“Is it going to be easy to get, Charms?” Deacon prodded, trying to get _ something _ out of her.   
  
“Yeah.” she breathed. “Yeah. Just the lock. Shouldn’t be a problem now. Think you should come with me, just in case - you know your way around a bobby pin.”

Deacon’s suspicion was roused, now. He’d watched Charmer pore over copies of Tumblers Today and was fairly certain she could crack his locker at HQ open without a sweat - he very much doubted she needed his help in that respect. There was an unspoken plea in her eyes, though - so he ran with the play.

“Shucks, Charmer, you’re going to make me blush.” He smiled. Those gathered at the table didn’t know any better - to be honest, Desdemona just seemed thankful it was over with.

“Then it’s settled. If you’re not confident in the weapon - or you can’t acquire it - report back and we’ll get Tom to figure something out.” Dez took a long, steadying drag from her cigarette. “If that chip has what you think it does, this changes everything. Godspeed. Dismissed.”

The agents of HQ clapped them on the shoulders as they headed for the back exit. Charmer gave them her megawatt smile, all confidence. They believed in her, and so did he. Enough to go to what was in all statistical probability his death. The score was worth the risk. Charmer had killed Kellogg, her very existence was a walking impossibility. He figured she warped reality around her in a similar way just to keep space-time intact. So all in all… they might come out of this okay.

They stepped into the flooded catacombs of the exit tunnel before he next spoke. “You know, I forgot to ask where we’re headed.” 

“Sanctuary Hills.” Charmer’s smile had died, and he felt a chill settle over him.

_ Vault 111. Of course. _

_ Her hair was longer. Her body fuller. He watched her sob through his scope. _

“I’ve got your back.”

It was all he could offer her.  
  
\--

Sanctuary Hills was no longer his hidden gem. Charmer always gave it a wide berth, and by association so had he. In the months that had passed since his last visit, a goddamn _ settlement _ had popped up. Destroyed houses had been transformed into scrap buildings resting on the old concrete foundations. Someone had rigged up power to the place, street lamps glowing once more, handmade signs (Weapons, Armor, Bar) were illuminated by scavenged spotlights in the waning daylight. It was something like he’d imagined it being, if he’d ever granted its location to the Railroad.

Too little, too late. He couldn’t complain. He’d had his decades to enjoy it. At least it hadn’t been settled by Raiders.

Charmer had been noticeably on edge since they’d passed the Red Rocket. He didn’t dare do anything to try and help. Couldn’t let her knew that _ he _ knew. Not until she was willing to talk about the looming presence up the hill on her own terms. As it was, she hadn’t slept since Ticonderoga, and frankly he didn’t want to push her over the edge entirely.

Her demeanor relaxed only slightly when a smartly dressed man in a _ fabulous _ hat waved them down from a watchtower. “General!” The man exclaimed brightly, hurrying down the steps to draw Charmer into an immediate and tight hug.

_ General. _ Deacon glanced at the flag hanging from the watchtower. _ Minutemen. _He wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. Preston suddenly noticed that Charmer did, indeed, have company. He looked suitably bashful.

“I told you not to call me that.” Charmer gave a long suffering sigh. “Preston, this is…”

“Dee.” Deacon figured if she was friends with the man, he could be on first letter privileges alongside Nick.

“Dee, Preston Garvey.” she introduced. “The man who _ should _ be general of the Minutemen, no matter what he thinks.”

Preston blushed. He was young - very young, younger than Charmer. And _ smitten _, by the looks of it. Deacon found that he couldn’t blame the kid - and frowned at himself for it. He took Preston’s hand when it was offered and gave it a lazy shake.

“Nice to meet you, Dee.” Impeccable manners, too. _ Ugh _. “Glad the General’s got someone watching her back.”

Charmer’s insistence that she not be called general only seemed to fuel Preston’s conviction. It’d be funny, if she didn’t just look _ tired _ in response. He had to get her some sleep. “Preston’s the reason I know which part of the gun the bullets come out of.” she explained. “After we met he insisted on making sure I wasn’t going to shoot myself in the foot.”

“I still say you should have kept the power armor and the minigun.” Preston beamed. “She ever tell you she took down a gang of raiders and a deathclaw?”

“Dogmeat dealt with the raiders.” Charmer cut in quickly. “And the deathclaw… you’d have to be blind not to hit a target that big with a fucking _ minigun _.”

“You ripped a minigun off of a vertibird and stared down a deathclaw. That’s an achievement, General.”

Deacon stared at Preston. The kid was straight out of a scout book, there was no way he even knew _ how _ to lie. He was outraged that Charmer had never brought it up. 

Seeing her face now, though, he supposed it was associated with bad memories. Even now, she was looking around the suburb with a palpable tension.

Preston misread her. “Impressive, isn’t it? Sturges had big plans, and the place was a gold mine for scrap parts. We’ve got a radio tower set up to broadcast for new settlers, too. Things were touch and go for a while, but…” The kid’s smile was _ constant _. “... I think it’s starting to look up. Thanks to you. I know you needed time to think. What happened… was a lot. But you look like you’ve done right by the Commonwealth. Think you’re ready to…”

“Preston. It’d be _ shameful _ to take charge when the man who taught me how to survive is standing right here.” Charmer’s voice was firm. “You can call me General, but you’re the leader the Minutemen need. The one they deserve.”

The kid cast a sideways glance at Deacon, self conscious. “If you didn’t come to take charge, can I ask what brings you back?”

Charmer looked guilty. Deacon wondered if she hadn’t returned since she first left. No wonder why Preston was so relieved.

“You know. Chasing the Holy Grail.” Deacon piped up, trying to save her the effort and make her smile at the same time.

She waved him off. “I’m going back to the Vault, Preston. When I… was on my way out, I saw a weapon that might be useful to us now.” That clinical tone was back.

Preston looked like he was hurting as much as Charmer was at the thought. She must have met him fresh out of the vault - must have given him the full story. “It’s not in too deep, is it?” 

“No.” she breathed. “No, thank god.” 

“You need me to come with?” Preston stepped a little closer to her, brow knit with worry. Deacon felt the strange urge to intervene.

“Lock’s pretty tight, so I brought Dee along.” Charmer said quickly. The urge disappeared into smoke, leaving shame in its wake. Her lie lit a fire in his chest, and he hated himself for it. “Shouldn’t be anything else to worry about. But… thanks.”

Preston nodded, taking a few steps back toward the watchtower. “Okay. Be careful in there.” he warned. “If you need somewhere to stay, guest house is that way.” He gestured down the road at the blue house the Mr. Handy always hovered around in the past. Deacon supposed it was secure.

Charmer was expressionless. Bracing herself for the vault, likely.

“Good plan.” Deacon spoke for her. “It’ll probably be dark by the time we’re out. Sleep would be nice, right, pal?”

She nodded weakly. Preston winced, but said no more.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time they made it up the hill to the vault entrance. Deacon felt as if they were visiting a grave - but they were, weren’t they? The tomb of her life before the world ended.

Charmer’s focus was forward, body numb. Still, she flinched when the alarm klaxons signalling the elevator’s movement sounded. Deacon placed his hand on her shoulder as the elevator below them lurched to life. She stared off to the southwest as it descended. _ Toward the Glowing Sea _. He wondered if she saw the mushroom cloud. He wanted to cover her eyes.

The air in the vault was stale, tinged with ozone and what he guessed was liquid nitrogen, and the ever present wasteland perfume of rot. Skeletons in lab coats littered the ground. 

“Talk to me, Dee.” Charmer’s voice was small, childlike, desperate. She kept her hands clasped tightly together to stop them from shaking. It’d leave a bruise.

Deacon did what he did best, what staved away memories of razorgrain waving softly in the wind, like the body hanging from the rope. He distracted.

He started to blabber about the legend of Ol’ Pegg while Charmer strode forward and took the door to her left. It led to a short hall. Deacon was suddenly struck by how _ cold _ it was - as if January had returned threefold. He could see his breath in front of him. Even so, Charmer’s forehead was starting to bead with sweat.

The hall opened to an office. An Overseer’s office if the old brochures he read were correct, judging by the look of the desk. Another skeleton. Charmer’s focus swiveled to their apparent prize - a gun in a frost-rimmed container, kept in what Deacon assumed was the Overseer’s personal armory. 

He kept talking as she set to work on the lock, distracting her, wondering if ghoulified animals live as long as ghoulified humans, if they could get smarter with such a long lifespan, if all fish in the sea were that way too. It was taking her far longer than usual - she broke several bobby pins and wept in frustration. He never stopped talking. He didn’t want to see what would happen if she was left in silence in this place.

At last, Charmer cracked the gun case and took the contraption into her shaking hands. It glimmered with frost crystals. Hurriedly, she grabbed what must have been ammo cells and stuffed them into her pocket.

Deacon chatted about boats then, of old explorers who sailed across the sea, if it was safe to cross the ocean now, wondered how people lived on the other side. He didn’t have to converse for long, as Charmer’s pace had quickened to a near sprint.

The sun had dipped below the horizon when the elevator rose back to the surface. Charmer’s whole body shook. They started to head down the hill, past the skeletons gathered around the chain link fence. He was talking about the time he saw one of those beached sea creatures wink at him once, when the tell tale rumble of another thunderstorm sounded in the distance. 

Charmer stumbled, and choked out a sob. “This was a mistake, Dee, I can’t - we have to stay, and I don’t know if I can-”

She was cracking. Getting her away from the Vault was critical. Deacon had planned for the Red Rocket, but already rain droplets were starting to fall around them. In her state of sleep deprivation and stress, an hour’s hike in a storm just might give her a fever that’d kill her.

Time to improvise.

“Hey, Charms. I know Goodneighbor smells a bit weird, and the citizens aren’t as handsome as me, but it’s not _ that _ bad. Just close your eyes, it’ll make it better.” He knelt down to whisper in her ear from behind.

Charmer was taking in gasping breaths, but she closed her eyes nevertheless. Good. He grasped her shoulders gently and guided her forward._ Keep up the lie. Pretend the hurt isn’t there. _It helped make him through the past decades. It’d make her through the night. “I’ll just tell you anything interesting I see while we walk back to the hotel, okay?” 

Her eyes were screwed shut. She couldn’t speak, only nodded.

Deacon narrated while they walked, their destination the guest house Preston had pointed out earlier. Thank fuck everyone in town was sheltering inside from the rain. Better to keep up the illusion. “Daisy’s closing up shop for the night. KLE0’s got an umbrella. Guess it keeps the rust away, huh?” He felt her vibrate with what he hoped was a breathless chuckle. “Hancock’s still trying to get a date with Magnolia outside the Third Rail. Amari’s pretending she doesn’t know us.”

They made it to the house. The front door - still a cheery orange - opened to a dusty living room. A red couch sat across from a rusting but intact television set. A collapsed holotape stereo lay under the window. The kitchen island was strewn with glasses. Must have been used for a party. 

A hallway exited to the left, and he assumed the bedrooms lay that way. He guided her down it, peeking in the doors as they passed them - bathroom, laundry room. Unoccupied. Good. There’s a massive cabinet that had been dragged in front of what he assumes is another doorway on the right at the end of the hall - but on the left he finds what he’s looking for. Bedroom.

Heavy tarp hung over where windows once were, and a couple mattresses rested on the collapsed bed frame. Someone had made a wreath of hubflower and razorgrain and set it on the dresser, giving the room a pleasant scent. A handmade quilt was spread neatly on the bed with some stitched together pillows above it. Sanctuary’s hospitality was surprising. “Got us a room on the ground floor, Charms. Boss’s suite. I do try my best to provide luxury. I’m going to get things ready for the night, okay? I’m still here.”

Deacon gently took the Cyrolator from her hands and set it on the dresser next to the wreath. Then he guided Charmer to the bed and sat her down. He took off her boots for her. “Okay. You can lay down.”

In spite of his efforts - or, perhaps, because of his efforts - Charmer curled up on her side and shuddered with silent tears. Deacon pulled the quilt over her and sat down on the other side of the bed. He watched her - the minutes passed by, and things seemed to be getting worse. Deacon placed his hand on her arm - and found she stilled.

“Don’t leave.” she had gathered the will to speak. He swallowed - it did nothing for how his throat constricted, seeing her like this. After their months together, after he’d seen her be the answer to so many’s prayers, here she was. Laid low by the construction of sociopaths. The Insititute’s crimes relived. The Cryolator glimmered on the dresser. 

_ All to try and help. _

“I won’t leave.” Deacon had wanted to sometimes, in their travels. He was used to going underground, disappearing for weeks at a time, and the change in schedule made him uneasy at times. More than anything, it was times like this that he wanted to leave the most - when he realized she depended on him, of all people. The worst the wasteland had to offer. But he could never leave. Never disappoint her.

He laid down beside her, keeping a foot of distance between them but hand still on her arm. They’d shared a bed before - it was just another fact of life when sleeping anywhere but home if they didn’t want to wake up sore in the morning - but they’d always piled their packs between them, keeping a healthy distance. Touch was… something else. They laid in uncharacteristic silence, until her shuddering stilled and her breathing slowed to that of sleep.

In the vague consciousness before he opened his eyes, he felt a warm weight in his arms. For a brief moment he wondered if he’d died in the night - but something like this didn’t await him on the other side. Hell didn’t have a warm body nestled against him. 

Deacon opened his eyes to find Charmer enveloped in his arms. Thin beams of daylight shone through gaps in the tarp curtains. He felt a bolt of panic and a chill of dread - _ too close, too close _. He tried to release her without disturbing her.

“Nate?” she murmured sleepily. _ She had a son. Of course she had someone. _ Now that someone had a name. Deacon’s blood ran cold. Another thing he had no right to know, that he shouldn’t know. He moved to put space between them before she came to full consciousness and realized where they were. Charmer’s eyes opened just as he sat up, her expression soft. She blinked once, twice, and then her posture stiffened. It made his chest ache to watch cold reality hit her in real time.

“Hey.” Deacon spoke softly. “Sorry. Didn’t want to risk you catching a fever and dying on me. We got what we needed. Ready to head out?” She nodded.

They packed up and left Sanctuary in the early dawn without a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of this chapter was actually one of the first things I wrote for this and initially going to be a stand alone oneshot, so y'all get a double update today.


	9. Wasteland Interlude II

The stretches of golden sand turned to endless dry grassland.

It was the first mark of change she’d come across in months. Her mind couldn’t quite register it. Everything had become a haze. In her death march across the desert, her life played on a loop. House’s shrivelled body. The dry hiss of his voice.

When she’d glimpsed her reflection, she supposed it was poetic justice. The Courier was all bones and sinew, her hair long and matted. She couldn’t remember how to speak. When she tried, a croak escaped her.

Was this the fate of all who meddled in the course of history?

It rained for the first time in an eternity. For so long, she had wished for it, for a cool sensation on her skin - but now she found it was too much for her system.

The Courier’s legs buckled beneath her. This time, she did not get up.

\--

_Footsteps. Little hands, trying to pry her pack from her shoulders. She reached out to bat them away. Screams._

_\--_

When next her eyes opened, she was greeted by a grey ceiling. 

"Mama! She's alive!" A little voice sounded from her right. She tried to turn to look, but her vision was so blurry she couldn't make out more than faint colors.

A set of heavy footsteps approached. She felt a warm hand on her forehead, then a damp cloth wiping at her face.

"The RadAway took, then." This voice was lower. Rich, warm - a woman's. "Drink."

A cup was placed to her lips. The liquid within was foul tasting, but she gulped at it desperately. When she tried to raise her hands to grasp at the cup, she found they would not move.

"Good. You can hear me. Can you speak?"

A moan escaped her.

"Hrm. You've been out six days. Was going to give up on the seventh. You've got good timing."

The cloth was wiping at her neck now, down her chest, her arms. Something hard was moved from beneath her.

"I'm Anne. What passes for a doctor, in these parts. I'd say it was providence that my Jesse found you, and not one of those slavers."

Was this a dream? 

"Don't try to move too much. You're safe, sweetheart."

She was drifting. A distant memory floating in her mind.

_Mother_.

"Welcome to Kansas."


	10. Greenetech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They attempt the impossible.

The further they got from Sanctuary, the more it had all felt like just a bad dream.

For her, a nightmare, but for him? One of those dreams where you found yourself running towards an exit infinitely far away. Where for Charmer that night carried dread, it was the embodiment of anxiety for Deacon.

The feelings faded the more distance they put behind them. Charmer eased back into her usual comfortable demeanor, and he returned to his previous confidence.   
  
Things felt like they had returned to normal once the edge of Lexington was in sight. The sun shone brightly ahead - for once the sky wasn’t overcast - and the landscape still smelled of fresh rain. Betty Hutton chirped on the radio, and all seemed right with the world. 

However much longer they had. Once they got into Boston proper, the radio would be sacrificed for tracking the Courser signal. After that, their lifespan could be measured in hours. 

Charmer shot him a playful look as the lyrics _ if it tells the biggest lies, if it wears the biggest ties _ crackled through her Pip-Boy. Deacon rolled his eyes.

No. His lifespan could be measured in hours. He’d make sure she got out. Charmer had her footing, she didn’t need someone like him to guide her through the Commonwealth. Deacon had spent the latter part of his life ensuring he’d be a minor player, someone who planted a seed and watched things grow. As long as she kept away from that fucking vault, she’d be alright.

Time for a confession wrapped as a lie.

“So. It’s been a couple months. You’ve done a ton of small jobs, did something bigger in getting H2 to safety. You’re doing well. I figure it’s time you learned the Big Secret.”

Charmer’s steps faltered, her pace slowing. She didn’t stop completely, though. Skeptical. Atta girl.

“Desdemona’s our poster girl. Gives the big speeches, calls the ops. Everyone figures she’s the boss. But it’s a false flag.” Open up with the lie. Get her to doubt him up front. It was the coward’s way out, this technique - make another truth about himself seem like another ridiculous story. He felt like Schrodinger’s Cat, trapped in a dual state of wanting truth and fiction at once. “She does what I tell her because the Railroad’s my show. Been that way since I founded it.”

That stopped Charmer in her tracks. She still wasn’t buying it - in fact, she looked almost insulted that he’d tried to pass something like this off. “You? You founded the Railroad?” She didn’t dismiss him out of hand. As she stared into his sunglasses in an attempt to break his nerve, he saw a trace of doubt in her eyes. Maybe she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t disbelieve him either. Split minds were contagious, it seemed.

“Yeah. Me, Johnny D, and Watts.” His own name felt strange on his tongue. A spark of fear lit in him when he saw Charmer’s eyes narrow, as if she could read his mind, as if she _ knew _. But nobody knew of the Railroad’s history before Wyatt’s time, and Deacon was long, long before that. Charmer was only skeptical. He was being paranoid. “That was… sixty? Seventy years ago? Long enough and you lose count.” 

His little sprinkle of truth. Deacon let it hang in the air for a brief moment, savoring the strange feeling an exposed truth gave him. Like part of him had fluttered away to a better place. The part of him that wasn’t terrified wished Charmer could know the weight of what he’d just said.

“I tell everyone I get the face changes for anonymity. That isn’t completely wrong, but it takes a lot of work to keep this mug handsome.” Back to half-truths. What landed him in his current condition was a fluke - an incident of curiosity and an unhealthy dose of suicidal recklessness. A memory best left forgotten. Time’s effects on him had slowed. He supposed he and Charmer had that much in common. People misplaced in time. Deacon flashed her a smile.

Charmer was studying him intently. Sniffing out the lie, or trying to. “This an excuse to try and get me to call you handsome?” she finally teased, resuming her previous pace.

Deacon let her go a few paces, staring at her back. Well. Some things would die with him after all. He jogged to catch up to her. “I’m not Hancock. I do have a point here, you know.”

“The guy says your sunglasses are tacky _ once _ and you have a nemesis.” Charmer snorted. “Okay, go on. I’m listening.” She spoke like she was waiting for a punchline, mildly entertained.

“We - the Railroad - have come a long way since the start. Learned things, saved a lot of synths. But we’re not just about that, no matter how many people think so.” Deacon emphasized his words now. This was important. The whole conversation was important, but if he ended up kicking it thanks to a Courser he wanted her to remember this, if nothing else. “We’re all that’s between the Commonwealth and the Institute. Maybe the world and the Institute. We’re trying to build a better world.”

“I believe that.” Charmer looked over her shoulder at him, speaking with the utmost sincerity. “Still don’t buy the shit about you leading the Railroad.”

He let out his anxiety with a low chuckle. “Yeah, okay. Might have gone too far, there.” She’d nosed out the obvious lie. He didn’t know if she assigned the rest of what he’d said the same verdict. Didn’t know if he _ wanted _ to know. “But listen. There’s a lot of other people - other organizations - out there. They have the same kinds of stories, the same propaganda. Reasons why when they speak you should listen, why they have a right to decide how things should be. Ignore the verbage, all the pretty words and elegant arguments they have, and look at their actions. Look at what they’re doing. What they’re asking you to do. What kind of world they want to build and how they plan to pay for it. Then you’ll have the truth.”

Charmer paused mid-step again. “Dee, I swear if this-”  
  
He took off his sunglasses. That silenced her. Deacon tried not to flinch as her eyes widened and roamed across his face, taking the new information in. At the moment his conviction was strong - his eyes would only betray his focus. Safe. “I don’t know if it’s how they raised people pre-war or if you’ve just got something in your genes, but anyone who has you in their corner has the advantage. As people find out about you, they’re going to try to get you on their side. Preston’s already tried, bless his heart.”

She smiled a little at that, though somewhat hazily. A wonderful and terrible thought sparked in his mind. His gaze rendered her vulnerable. Best not to let the novelty wear out - for now, though, he had a point to make.

“At the end of the day, you’re going to have to make a choice. Make it the right one. I think you’re the only one who can.”

His sunglasses returned to the bridge of his nose. Charmer cleared her throat. They resumed their approach of Boston.

“You scare me a little when you say things like that, you know.” The silence was broken after a few minutes. “Makes me think you’re planning on disappearing on me.”

Deacon frowned at the back of her head. “You’ve been listening to the gossip at HQ, huh?” he said casually. “I’ll admit, partnering up… it’s weird. I’m used to peacing out for a while. Sometimes I want to pop a Stealth Boy and slip away. But that’s not really an option anymore.”

“Dee, you don’t have to-”

“Charms, believe me. If I really wanted to leave, I’d let you know, and I’d be gone. You’re not holding me hostage. I’m walking to my doom of my own accord.” Deacon chirped brightly. “Well, that, and I really don’t want to find out what Valentine will do to me if he found out something happened to you on my watch.”

They’d hit the city limits. His partner raised her arm and turned off the radio, switching to a specific frequency. Silence. Then a low _ boop _.

“It works.” Deacon exhaled. The gravity of their situation washed over them both - the low tone emitting from her Pip-Boy bringing the presence of a Courser, _ nearby _, into stark relief. It ramped up in frequency if they turned or moved in a certain direction. Charmer unlatched the Cryolator from her hip. Deacon took his assault rifle in hand.

“Dee?” Charmer whispered after several minutes, when the signal was going once a second.

“Yeah?”

“My mother used to call grey eyes liar’s eyes. They catch whatever light’s nearby. Change hues, just a little bit, depending where they are.” Her smile was nervous. “Just… thought you might find it funny.”

Deacon swallowed. “Glad to hear my genetics agree with me.” He chuckled. _ Keep it light. Keep it casual. _

They fell back into silence as the signal started to ramp up again, urgent and frightening. He worried it might give away their position, but found his worries unfounded when they approached a skyscraper. Chrome lettering on its side read ‘_ Greenetech Genetics _’. 

The ground was painted with blood. 

Gunner corpses were slumped against barriers. Piles of warm ash glowed dimly. The doors to the building were ripped from their hinges. 

Images flashed into his mind unbidden. A time when he was just a runner, when he’d seen carnage for the first time since Barbara. The first HQ in flames. The next time he was prepared, but it didn’t save Wyatt. He could see his body jerking from the bullets flying into him as if it had happened only yesterday. 

“You ready?” came a gentle voice from his left. Charmer had nudged him back to the present. 

“Got enough ammo to last us a week. We have enough stimpaks to bring back the dead and enough med-x to tranquilize a death claw, if that fails. Yeah. Prepared as I’ll ever be.” 

He tried not to think of her in Wyatt’s place. She smiled at him like failure hadn’t ever crossed her mind - a Tommy Whispers smile.

“Let’s kill us a Courser.”

\--

It was as if they’d stepped into hell. Fires were burning, gore was everywhere - but it was calculated gore. Skulls blown open, precision shots to the chest that’d brought blood up through the mouth. Horror that could only be inflicted by a mind with singular purpose and no sense of empathy. Super Mutants weren’t this clean.

Explosions rattled the building above them. They could see laser fire through gaps in the walls. There was a Courser two floors above them. There was a _ Courser _ only a few dozen feet away.

Worse yet, Gunners were flooding the halls to provide backup. The voice on the building’s intercom diverted forces to deal with the secondary intruders.

Secondary intruders being he and Charmer, naturally.

Greenetech’s narrow rooms and tight hallways were a lifesaver. Charmer had swapped the Cryolator out for Deliverer in the close quarters and was doing Tommy Whispers proud. Deacon shot down Gunners from a distance, doing his best to ensure none ever caught on to Charmer’s presence. The mercenaries were in utter disarray. It was gruelling work, exhausting - but they progressed up the building.

Until the final foyer - a flanked stairway leading up to VIP offices and the only working elevator in the building. The Gunners had the advantage, perched in the high ground on the stairs, with only one door through which he and Charmer could enter. He’d tossed in a grenade and prayed, the two of them sprinting in amidst the dust cloud - but a yelp of pain reached his ears nevertheless.

Deacon threw himself into cover behind a pillar, looking around madly for Charmer. She was on the ground, hiding behind an old metal desk. A crimson stain was spreading across the fabric at her thigh, and she was fumbling with a stimpak. Bullets plinked against the desk.

An old sensation lit within him. When there was a gap in fire he tossed out his last grenade and dove out of cover. He ascended the stairs shortly after the grenade exploded, moving quickly, gunning down the wounded and fleeing. Counting bodies, counting shots. The Gunners weren’t prepared for an action so aggressive - so borderline suicidal.

At last, silence. Deacon was still, coming down from the rush of blood. He hadn’t done something like that since…

A whimper drew him back. He sprinted down the stairs to Charmer’s side. 

Tears of pain were streaking down her face, cutting lines in the dirt and smoke that caked it. “M’alright.” she grunted, taking in deep and measured breaths. “Just… waiting for the meds to kick in…”

His hands wrapped around her thigh, turning it and inspecting the wound. A bullet had skimmed the outer side of her thigh - enough to hurt like a son of a bitch, but not enough to sever arteries or cripple her. “Lucky Charms.”

Charmer cackled. The med-x had definitely kicked in.

“Can you believe it took me that long for that joke? You can’t imagine the restraint I’ve had to exercise.” He laughed breathlessly. His hands shook from the adrenaline. A loud noise came from upstairs, and his attention darted upward. Their doom awaited them.

Charmer struggled upright, her footing unsteady. He gave her his arm, guiding her to the elevator.

“I’m going to do what I can to keep their attention.” Deacon began, pressing the call button. “Same method as usual. Let you get up close and freeze him. If that doesn’t work…” He swallowed. “We do what we can. If things start going wrong, we retreat. If things start going _ really _ wrong, you retreat.” 

“Dee-”

“I’ve got a couple mines I’m going to lay down once we get out of the elevator. Should buy you some time.” he continued, speaking quickly. “Listen - the Railroad knows everything of use that I can give it. I’ve had a good career. You, on the other hand - you’re one in a million, pal. I meant it when I said you’re the only one out there who can make the right choice.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. 

Charmer took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

“We’re going to make it, Dee. Cut it out.” 

His hand burned when she released it. 

They stepped into the elevator, and ascended.

Contrary to what he expected, the Courser did not await them when the elevator doors opened. They crept out, following the sound of voices. Stilted command. Whimpered pleas that turned into shouted ones, then silence.

They entered an atrium, of sorts. Pipes led from the ground to the ceiling. He could see shadows moving around up above, but couldn’t get a shot in. The two moved forward, up yet another flight of stairs. His legs burned. Charmer panted behind him. Deacon did as he promised, scattering a few mines behind them as they went. He hadn’t felt more mortal than he had then, climbing higher and higher, ready to meet his maker.

On the top level a set of double doors and a terminal barred their way. Deacon could make out words exchanged now, while Charmer set to work on cracking the terminal. He took point near the door, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

“I don’t know the password!” A young man shouted. “I’m telling the truth!”

The voice that replied made him shudder. Human, but… not. Too cold. Devoid of inflection, of feeling. “I don’t believe you are.”

Something crackled through the air - the telltale sound of laser fire. A dull thud from beyond the door. Charmer’s expression shifted, the sign that she’d cracked the terminal. 

They nodded at each other. The double doors slid open.  
  
Deacon swung around from his cover, rifle raised. A chill settled in him as the figure of a dreaded Courser came within his sights. The Black Death. Scourge of the Commonwealth. As his finger pressed down on the trigger, he realized what a terrible idea this truly was. The Courser flickered out of sight, Deacon’s bullets ricocheting off the metal wall where the synth once stood. 

Charmer was nowhere to be seen, at least - they’d taken one of Carrington’s prototype stealth boys for the road, and by god something about that asshole was going to prove itself useful. Deacon stepped into the room, only noting its details in his periphery while he searched for a stealth boy’s giveaway - a gentle bending of light, the feeling of static.

Gunners were tied up and lined up against the wall. A few were dead. Some were whimpering. They began to yell when laser fire appeared from the room’s far corner, the spray killing one of their brethren instantly.

Deacon was only slightly more fortunate. He could smell burned flesh, felt a blooming pain in his shoulder and arm. The next burst of laser fire he anticipated, managing to duck behind the pipes before anything more had a chance to connect. He slammed another magazine in and made ready to hold the line, adrenaline drowning out the pain.

The Courser was fast. Deacon had to keep moving around his only cover, straining his ears for footsteps, trying to get in touch with that instinct that had helped him survive so long. 

Another burst of laser fire, taking out the remaining Gunners. He did what he could to spare them, but this was a dangerous dance he couldn’t fudge the steps on. Charmer was taking longer than they’d thought. She must have been just as blind to the Courser’s location as he was, the synth’s movements far too quick to keep up with.

Pain. Sharper this time, radiating down his chest. A hole was burned in his shirt at the collarbone. _ Could have been the heart. Lucky. _ Even so, the pain was intense enough that it burst through the cloud of adrenaline. Moving hurt.

A blow hit him behind the knees and sent him sprawling to the ground, sunglasses flying. When he rolled over with his rifle raised he had the weapon torn from his hands for his effort. By some miracle his fingers didn’t snap. The Courser flickered back into view, scarred face and hollow eyes staring down at him from above. The image of death.

“Who sent you?” 

There was somehow an _ arrogance _ in the Courser’s tone. A bored inquiry, like they were reading a brochure before it was tossed away.

Deacon choked out a laugh. “I’m just the pizza delivery boy, man-”

The Courser’s boot pressed down on his chest, toe digging into his wounded collarbone. Deacon shouted, swore, the corners of his vision blurring and growing black.

“Interesting.” The Courser mused, raising its laser rifle.

A loud _ hiss _ joined the fray, signalling Charmer’s arrival.

Her form exited the shadows, Cryolator in hand and murder in her eyes. The device was spewing out some sort of mist, so cold that Deacon could feel it. Caught off guard, the Courser had tried to move back, but his movements were turning sluggish. The leather of his coat froze, cracking and shattering with every attempt the synth made to move. Within seconds, the synth was frozen in place.

Deacon watched as Charmer withdrew the Deliverer from its holster and placed the barrel against the synth’s neck. She clenched her jaw, and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet severed the Courser’s spinal cord and blasted through an artery in an impressive spray of blood. The body was held in place for a few moments more, before thawing enough to collapse to the ground just a foot from where Deacon lay.

“Deacon.” Charmer breathed, falling to her knees next to him. Her hands ghosted over his wounds - the crater carved into his collarbone, the wicked burns on his left arm and shoulder. 

“I think that went pretty well.” He did his best to smile at her, though it probably looked more like a wince. 

“Could have gone better. Shit, I’m sorry.” Her voice was hoarse. Charmer dug a stimpak and vial of med-x from her belt pouch, making a point of hiding her face for a few moments. He felt a minor sting, heard the empty syringes clatter to the ground. Her hand was on the side of his face, then, thumb ghosting over his cheek. 

Deacon didn’t know if it was the sudden hazy rush from the med-x that rendered him breathless, or her gentle touch. Or maybe it was just the last hallucination of a dying brain. A lot of his moments with her felt that way, to be honest.

“Your sunglasses.” she said quite suddenly, hand leaving his face. 

“Yeah, that hurt more.” Deacon managed to haul himself upright as Charmer scanned the floor. She found his glasses a few meters away. Their fingertips brushed one another when he took them from her.

He didn’t know when he’d started keeping track of their contact. He just knew that the count was slowly growing higher, and it filled him with dread.

\--

Cleanup was a fucking mess.  
  
Deacon went around retrieving the mines he’d laid down while Charmer extracted the Courser chip. By the time he re-entered the room she was at the utility closet terminal, doing her best to bust out the Gunners’ prisoner.

“I’m guessing she’s what the Courser was after.” Deacon breathed, looking at the woman behind the glass. She was pacing nervously. Unarmed and underdressed.

“What do you think they had planned for her?” Charmer didn’t glance up from the terminal as she spoke.

“They’re Gunners, so - probably something involving caps. Maybe they were especially stupid and thought they could ransom her back to the Institute.” He looked over the corpses on the ground. “Can’t tell us now.”

“Got it.” Charmer hit a few keys on the terminal and the closet door slid open.

The woman within scurried out and started looting the corpses for weaponry and some protection. She spoke only as long as it took to get the gear on. A quick thank you, an insistence that she could take care of herself. She waved away their attempt to get her to stop in at Ticon, and was gone before they could get too good of a look at her.

“... you’re welcome.” Charmer murmured. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked resentful.

“Cut her some slack. She doesn’t know who we are. I don’t blame her for being cagey - besides, she looks like she’s got a hell of a lot more experience than H2.” 

“What happens to synths the Institute finds?”

“We don’t know.” Deacon rubbed at the back of his neck. It gave him a decent view of the wounds on his arms, and he suppressed a wince. “Have a fair few guesses, none of which are nice.”   
  
Charmer didn’t want to find out those guesses, judging by her silence. He gave the room a once-over, intent on making sure there was nothing they’d missed before they left for HQ. Hopefully the med-x would last. He wasn’t keen on taking another shot.

He spotted something on the stairs that led to the roof access. On closer inspection, it was a _ Fat Man. _ Mini-nuke already included.

“Christmas came early, Charms. Well. Late, if you think about it too hard - look, nevermind.” He wondered if the erasure of his pain was worth the loss of control over his words. “You ever see one of these?”

“No. Looks like a grenade thrower, except…”

“It throws nukes. Teensy ones, but they’re about as bad as the engines in one of those old trucks going full meltdown.” He carefully slung it around his back, nudging his rifle out of the way. “These babies are rare. Useful as all hell if you’re outnumbered and have distance on your side. Should probably get it to HQ before I throw my back out.” Deacon squinted at the roof access sign. “You know, it’d be a crying shame if we climbed all this way and didn’t even get to sightsee.”

Charmer raised a brow. “I thought you hated heights.”

“Hate’s a strong word. Either way - you don’t. I’ll deal.”   
  
\-- 

If Ticonderoga was a dream, the top of Greenetech Genetics was heaven.

They exited out onto a helipad that stretched away from the building, wide and flat. On three sides of them, the Commonwealth stretched out for miles. The sky above seemed infinite, tinged pink by the setting sun. He didn’t really feel the cold - didn’t really feel nervous from the elevation, either.

It was hard to focus on anything else but Charmer. She crossed the helipad, stopping near the edge. The breeze ruffled her hair. He stared at her back, the gravity of what they had done hitting him at last.

They had killed a Courser.

They had killed a Courser and _ lived _.

And there at the edge of the world stood this woman who had just been a lawyer, who had probably never held a gun until half a year ago, for whom nothing was an impossibility. There she stood, surrounded by the ruins of what had built her, the likes of her never to be seen again. 

“I miss the Old World.” The words left his lips unbidden. In his med-x haze, it was hard not to wax poetic. 

Charmer turned and walked back, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Around you, I don’t feel like it’s quite dead.” For once when on the subject of the past, she smiled. “Thanks, Dee. For everything.”

He wanted to say something meaningful. Wanted to be as genuine as she was, to tell her that as a young boy he’d dreamed of the world she came from, that when he was with her he felt like he was part of those gift shop snow globes, just for a moment.

Deacon wanted a lot of things that couldn’t be allowed to be.

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got to get back to HQ and I don’t think the med-x is going to last us that long. I get _ whiny _ when I’m sore.”   
  
And like that, the little snow globe moment between them melted away. He could see a trace of hurt in Charmer’s eyes, but she smoothed a neutral expression over her face soon after.

“You think Carrington’s still going to give us shit after we killed a Courser?” she asked, as they headed back to the door.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am on the Johnny D = Deacon conspiracy train, all aboard.


	11. Begin Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier finds respite.

Thrice, she cheated death.

Was this her fate? To nearly grasp eternal rest, to be so close to at last finding some peace, only to be dragged back into the shambling corpse her existence had become? Born in a clinic, again and again, medicine forever her bane.

Perhaps she was living wrong. Given chance upon chance to do it right, by whatever power may be. Maybe, when she finally figured out the answer, she’d be allowed at last to end.

For now, she had no choice but to continue. Fading in and out - but wakefulness was coming. 

Purpose was coming.

\--

Kansas was a land of extremes.

The Courier proved to have good timing in more ways than one. When she was able to stay conscious for more than a handful of minutes at a time, Anne had told her that she had arrived just before the storm season had begun. That if she was a couple of weeks later, she wouldn’t have made it anywhere close to safety.

She didn’t realize what exactly that meant at first. In her convalescence, numerous new faces came in and out of Anne’s makeshift clinic, eager to speak to a newcomer. They were different than the people of Nevada - softer, shorter, paler. Their scars were few, but missing fingers and limbs were common. The Courier said little when these visitors arrived - could still barely talk, really - but she was more than capable of listening. The storm season was something spoken of in hushed tones, reverent tones, edged with terror. It was the reason why, as the Courier soon discovered, civilization here was rooted underground. Anne was part of a small community of farmers who had set up shop in a missile silo, their town creatively dubbed ‘The Silo’. In the early spring, they’d seed their crops as fast as possible - Planting Season was spoken of with as much nerves as Storm Season. A man’s lifespan was decided by his speed. In late spring and summer, they closed the silo doors and hid. 

It was when she was able to stand again that she could hear the reasons why. 

Anne had helped her out of bed. Though the Courier dwarfed her by a foot, Anne was stout and strong, an anchor for the withered Courier. Anne held her arm to steady her and guided her into the Silo’s great hall, the pit which once held a nuclear missile. Even though the space was criss-crossed with string lights and colorful fabrics, she still couldn’t shake memories of the Divide.

Until the noises began. Gentle patter at first, like rain on sheet metal. Then banging noises, as if someone was throwing pots down stairs. Then great crashes, horrible screeching, the howl of wind. Thunder so powerful that even this far down the walkways vibrated.

“A week or two more, and you’d have been out in the thick of it. You see why we don’t dare head outside.” Anne had whispered. “The fury of the storm is the price we pay for the bounty we are blessed with.”  
  
The Courier stared upward at the silo doors, the foot thick steel rattling as if it was a scrap wall.

“I… want…” she croaked. This was important, through sheer will she’d summon her voice again. “... to see…”

Anne looked at her in terror. “It’s a sight not meant for mortal eyes. Few have seen it and lived - and they were fast enough to run to shelter before it was too late. You’ve only just started walking.”  
  
“I _ want _…” The Courier repeated, finding her voice. Each word was a breath of life, of power. “... to see.”

The doctor worried at her lip. “I spent good supplies bringing you back from the brink. The fact that you were even able to return was a miracle. I won’t have you throw that - and your life - away.”

The Courier dropped her gaze from the silo doors, staring at Anne with an intensity that nearly made the woman shrink from her.

“Then I will work. Pay you back. Then-” Her sentences were short, clipped, but each word felt like a gunshot out of her mouth, a punctuating blow. She was _ The Courier _. “-I see.”

\--

Late summer was the Season of Calm. The brief moment between Storm and Harvest, where one could venture outside and experience nature’s bounty.

The Courier walked with confidence, no longer corpse-like, rejuvenated by Anne’s careful care and a diet of the Silo’s canned preserves. She still spoke little - though this was by choice. It was time for her first job of her new life - an echo of a life passed.

Courier, once more. The Silo had connections with several other settlements nestled underground - some in old bunkers, some in caves, some in manually dug tunnels. They all operated in similar manners - farming, and hiding. Each settlement had its own specialized crop, all bred over time for increasingly hardier roots, increased resistance to the storms that plagued the countryside - and seeds from the latest harvest were as good as gold.

The Courier was one of very few in the Silo who could shoot - and even in her diminished state was the best shot by a mile. Her payment for Anne’s kindness was to visit each settlement with the tithe of Silo’s seed, obtain each settlement’s seeds in turn, and bring them back to the Silo in time for Planting Season.

They stood in Anne’s clinic - the room which had become the Courier’s home. Standing above the trunk at the foot of the bed which held the Courier’s belongings, locked and untouched since her arrival. Anne took out a key and unlocked it. “Didn’t want you hurting yourself.” she’d said. “But I have a good feeling about you now.”

Looking upon its contents was like setting eyes on an old lover. Her rifle lay on top. The Courier picked it up, held it ready, noted how it didn’t fit into her shoulder quite like it used to, how she felt it press against her bones. An ill reminder that she was no longer the woman she was before - that she could never be that woman again.

The sight of the beret stung worse. She had been stabbed before - more times than she’d ever like - and the feeling was similar. A rush of cold, knocking the air out of her, then pain. 

His face was still clear as day to her.

“The last thing you never see.” Anne spoke from behind her. “I don’t know what the NCR is, but that patch… you were dangerous, weren’t you?”

The Courier nodded.

“A killer?”

She nodded again.

“We aren’t soldiers here.” Anne began, sitting on the bed. “Storm and Silo protect us, most of the time. But there are evil men out there even so. Slavers. Some of them have taken our own. They’ll try to take what we’ve given you.”

“Want them dead?” The Courier rasped.

“If they’re gone, we won’t need a good shot here anymore. You can see the Storm.”

Even here, there was always an angle, a gamble to be made. “Done.”

The Courier stared at the beret in the trunk. Remembered his hands, when he’d given it to her. She picked it up and placed it on her shaved head.

It was a reminder of why she had left. A signifier of how far she had come. A beacon toward her final destination.

\--

Kansas was a land of extremes.

When the Courier left the silo and saw daylight for the first time in months, she was greeted by a sight of unimaginable beauty.  
  
Months of rain and storms had fed the landscape. Never in her life had she thought she would see the colors before her in nature. _ Green _ . Lush, thick leaves and bushes. _ Gold. _ Razorgrain - or, at least, the Silo’s variety of it - waving softly in the wind. Corn stalks tall as she was. _ Red, orange, purple _. Vegetables she’d never seen, growing on vines and on stalks and in the ground. 

The sky above was the deepest blue. Sometimes in her travels it would turn a dark navy - even in the Season of Calm, the rain would wash over the earth, but here it was warm. 

Before she had reached the first settlement, she knew it’d be difficult to leave.

\--

The slavers were fat and spoiled. Preying upon the odd farmer and messenger, caught unfortunate and unawares outside of the settlements’ safety. Kidnapping children playing in the fields. Harvesting the farmer’s crops, stealing a bounty they’d never had to work and sacrifice for. Easy prey made for an unskilled hunter.

The Courier’s killing instincts were still sharp.

Their encampment was obvious, smoke from their fire trailing into the sky and visible for miles. Overconfident. They’d trampled down corn to make their own nest amidst the stalks. There were sixteen of them. No slaves in sight.

She’d burned down Fortification Hill.

She’d burn them all down.

The Courier struck at night. She didn’t need her rifle. Knife in hand, she slit the throats of those on watch, then crept into the tents. They’d never expected it. They’d thought to watch for more unsuspecting victims. More prey. Never a predator.

Cold. Clean. Efficient. It was how Boone had taught her. The ghost of the NCR reached even these elysian fields.

\--

The people of the other settlements - Bunker Town, Stalag, Garden Plain - were much like those of the Silo. A people who were born and raised underground, fed on nature’s riches, knowing little danger other than the Storm. Creativity was a common streak within them, she’d found. Where the Silo was renowned for its textiles, beautiful patterns fluttering in the silo’s empty space, the others all had their unique talents. Bunker Town had a cache of instruments found by the first settlers. It was the first music she’d heard since leaving New Vegas, her pip-boy radio finding no purchase. The Courier nearly wept. Stalag, the cave city, had great sculptures carved into her walls - elaborate pillars, delicate figures, monsters and plaques and great depictions of history. Garden Plain had perfected hydroponics, the town’s interconnected basements filled with flowers and herbs of all types, scented of heaven.

They were honest people. Earnest people. Simple, storm fearing people. As she logged each new location into her Pip-Boy, a dark thought struck her. If the Legion had been allowed to flourish, to push east as well as west…

That part of her choice was the right one. The Legion had to be destroyed, not just for what it had done to Boone, not just for what it had done to so many innocents - but for what it had yet to do.

Anne was stunned when the Courier returned, seeds in hand and a bag full of slaver’s ears as proof of her deed. From the look on her face, she hadn’t seen anything like it before. 

It was a sign of things to come.

\--

She gained her musculature back in the harvest season. Backbreaking labour, from dawn til dusk - it felt good. Didn’t allow her to think. Around the people of the Silo, she was beginning to consider that too much thinking was, in fact, bad for you. They simply accepted life as it came to them, didn’t struggle. Maybe that was the secret to happiness.

It felt good. To pull tatos from the vine, toss them onto the cart to join the gleaming red pile. To take a scythe to the razorgrain. To shuck corn. Creating something, instead of destroying it. She’d never done that before. All she could remember was making her path with death and blood.

The Silo held a feast at the end of the harvest season. At the bottom of the pit, they dragged tables and chairs out, squeezing enough in for the entire settlement. They’d opened the silo doors, let the waning sun shine down upon them and gave thanks to the storm.

She noticed a man with dark eyes staring at her from down the table.

\--

The Dry Season came. The Courier learned to can and jar the first month - when that work was done, some of the settlement women tried to teach her how to work flax into thread, how to weave on a loom. How to dye and stitch and sew.

For once, she could look upon her accomplishments and smile. Tasted the pickled vegetables, gave Anne’s son, Jesse, her first textile (an unevenly woven handkerchief). Something she had made was _ good _. Untainted by the bittersweet. Just… good. She laughed and drank with the people of the Silo, relishing in their brewed cider and beer. Heard storm-stories, old histories and rumors. 

The few times she tried to speak of herself went poorly. Either the people of the Silo would share Anne’s horrified expression, or they simply could not understand the world out west. At first it saddened her, but in time she thought it was for the best. To leave the past, let it exist only as a reminder of what could never happen again.

Still, she kept the beret. 

Her hair had grown a few inches by the time Planting Season came around again. Anne held her hand and asked her if she still wanted to see the Storm.

The Courier said no.


	12. Mandatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some rules cannot be broken.

They arrived back at HQ just after nightfall. The med-x had worn off, and Deacon was eager to slink off to a mattress and lick his wounds. The work had been all Charmer, she deserved the accolades and excitement.

Charmer was limping next to him, the water of the back exit sloshing in odd patterns with her gait. Deacon gritted his teeth, unable to ignore the radiating pain from his collarbone - worsened by the strap of his rifle. He wondered if he could manage without having Carrington patch him up - what was the worst that could happen, really?

They tried their best to slip in unseen. Deacon held the door open for her, shutting it quietly once she’d crossed the threshold. Various agents were snoozing in the mattress-strewn hallway. Good. He had a better chance of creeping to his usual spot with less people awake. 

Unfortunately, they caught Drummer Boy just as he decided it was time for bed.

“Oh, shit.” Their resident town crier whispered, turning back to the main area of HQ and shouting out; “Charmer’s back!”

“Son of a bitch.” Deacon muttered. He at least managed to dump his equipment next to his mattress before being ushered in to the debriefing.

PAM’s chamber was the closest thing they had to privacy in the crypt. They found Dez and Carrington waiting for them there. Deacon hadn’t seen Desdemona smiling like she was since the first year they managed no casualties. Carrington, however, wore his ever present look of disdain and took note of their wounds immediately.

“Are those from the Courser?” Carrington inquired. The implication ran underneath - the assumption that they’d gotten shot up by something else and had limped their way back in failure.

Deacon opened his mouth to say something suitably irreverent, but Charmer took control of the conversation before he could derail it. “Wouldn’t come back unless we had something.” She dug the chip out from her pocket, holding it out in her palm. Pried from the base of the Courser’s skull, wiped clean of blood. A wicked looking thing. For once Carrington was rendered speechless, staring at the device with feigned skepticism.

“You did it.” Dez breathed, beaming from ear to ear. She took the chip carefully, cradling it in her hand. “Even if we can’t get any information from the chip, there’s one less Courser in the world. Deacon was right about you.”

He smirked. “Promised she wouldn’t make a liar out of me.” Hearing Desdemona’s praise filled him with pride. At last, people were starting to see just what Charmer was capable of. 

“A needless risk, if there’s nothing to be found.” Carrington interrupted, finding something to say at last. His hair was slightly mussed. They must have woken him up.  _ Good _ .

Desdemona’s smile vanished. Typical fucking Carrington. “I believe we’ll agree to disagree.” she said cooly. “If nothing else, you can tell us what you found while Carrington takes care of those wounds. Anything that might help.” She jerked her thumb backward to PAM’s still form. “She’s listening.”

Deacon and Charmer did their best to give a comprehensive explanation of what went down in Greenetech amid hisses of pain from Carrington’s attentions. While Deacon’s dislike of the man ran deep, he knew that few Commonwealth doctors could compare with his skill. Charmer’s leg wound was tended to easily - a quick disinfection, two stitches and a bandage. The burns on his arm were similarly simple, but the small crater in his collarbone was something else. Charmer handled Dez and Carrington’s questions while Deacon did his best not to whimper. The two senior members bristled on finding out that he and Charmer let the Courser’s synth prisoner go, but relaxed when assured that the young woman was more than capable of handling herself and that they’d tried their best. Honestly.   


When the debriefing had ended, Carrington frowned and gave Deacon’s collarbone a last painful prod for good measure. “As I’m well aware of your aversion to painkillers, I’ll have you know it’s going to be a nuisance for a few weeks.” he sniffed. “And it will scar, of course.”

“Another for the club.” Deacon tried to ignore the little crease that formed in Charmer’s brow at that. 

“I’m grounding the two of you for a week.” Desdemona folded her arms. “I’m starting to realize that’s the only way to make sure either of you get some rest. You’re as bad as Glory.”

“No we’re not.” God, even shrugging hurt. Maybe Dez had a point.

“We’re worse.” Charmer added with a smile.

Tinker Tom, unlike Carrington, looked as if he’d been awake all along and hadn’t just been roused a few minutes prior. Given that the man only seemed to sleep one day out of the week, it was impressive. 

"You got it?" Tom asked Dez, bouncing giddily on his heels.

"They got it." Dez placed the chip on his desk.

Tom took the chip gleefully and started babbling in all sorts of terms Deacon barely understood. He settled for watching Charmer. This moment was important - all of their hopes hung on what this little chip might provide. They’d been willing to bet their lives on it. If that chip held the key to the Institute, to maybe finding her son - he wanted to be there to see the look on her face when it proved true.

Tom’s terminal was whirring more loudly than usual, hooked up to the chip. What Deacon  _ could _ glean from the man’s chatter was that trying to unlock the secrets held within was proving exceptionally difficult. After a few moments Deacon could smell the telltale scent of electrical smoke, and Tom started panicking. 

Charmer stopped breathing, watching as their resident tech expert ripped out the cables linking the two pieces of tech. Her crestfallen expression caused an echo of pain within him. He was past resenting it, the empathy that came with spending too much time with a person. 

“Talk to me, Tom. In English, please.” Dez sighed. Setbacks and failures were par for the course, but they affected her nevertheless. He’d never stop seeing her as that green recruit, thrust into leadership because she was the only person everyone could agree on. 

Tinker Tom had caught his breath, returning to what, for him, counted as calm. “Okay. Well, the terminal isn’t fried, which is a good thing. This baby-” He gave the Courser chip a gentle pat. “-is going to need a lot of processor power. A lot of terminals. Ones we’re okay with burning - if we could find a supercomputer, that’d be perfect, but I’m going to say we don’t take this chip out of here.”

“Terminals. We can do that.” Dez peered at Deacon and Charmer. “Would be a gentler return to work when your week’s up."

Charmer spoke with a wavering tone. "You can get it open, though, right?" Deacon didn't want to see how she'd react if their entire suicide run had been for nothing.

"Oh yeah. Remember who you're talking to." Tom beamed with pride. It was enough to make Charmer relax a little.

"We have an ETA on when the chip will be cracked after we get the tech?" If Desdemona was skeptical, she didn't show it.

Tom rubbed his hands together. “If you can get me the hardware? Can’t make any guesses until I see how much stress the chip puts on their systems. If I cycle them I can ensure there’s less of a chance of losing them and having to start over… uh. A few weeks. Ballpark.”

Charmer inhaled sharply. He could see her fingers twitching, her weight shift anxiously. They had a possible lead - but now they were hamstrung by time. Time that could prove to be a waste if Tinker Tom’s confidence was misplaced. Deacon made a note to ensure that she never had a moment to dwell.  _ Time flies when you’re having fun. _ Maybe they’d pay the Combat Zone a visit.

“Alright. I’ll see if some of our runners can’t start looking for what you need. In the meantime.” Dez turned to give Deacon and Charmer her full attention. “One week of rest. Mandatory. Then I’ll have another assignment for you. If I catch either of you doing anything to ruin Carrington’s work, I’ll have  _ him _ work as your handler.”

“Jesus, Dez. Little over the top, don’t you think? Just put us in the stocks. Or an iron maiden. Can we get one of those?” He looked at Charmer out of the corner of his eye. He’d managed to return a smile to her face. Excellent.

The leader of the Railroad walked over to her desk, opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of clear liquid. “Just to prove I’m not entirely cruel, here.” Dez handed the bottle to Charmer. “Vodka. It’s tradition, after your first run.”

Charmer turned the bottle over in her hands. “Guess we’ll have time to enjoy it.”

“You deserve it.” Desdemona gave Deacon a look he recognized before she returned to her work plotting out the next runner route. The  _ we’re going to talk _ look. 

He was going to need that vodka.

\--

A week of rest wasn’t as terrible as he thought. 

It was the first time he’d taken a break from the cause in… was it really a decade already? And even then, it wasn’t as if he’d taken a  _ proper _ break. There was always something to do, something to chip away at. Without it, he’d be left with nothing but himself for company - and he was his least favorite person in the world.

With Charmer, though, having a fat load of nothing to do was bearable. She was an excellent distraction.

The first couple days, when they were too sore to move much at all, they lounged on their mattresses side-by-side and passed the bottle of vodka back and forth, reading aloud from a copy of the  _ Canterbury Tales _ \- in old English. They’d drunkenly stared at the page, arguing over what certain words could possibly be. As much as Charmer had tried to explain to him that it was in English, just an ancestral version of it, Deacon wasn’t convinced it wasn’t an elaborate ploy on her part to try and trick him.

The third day, they’d started to do all the housekeeping they’d put off. Sharpening their boot knives. Patching holes in their clothing. Taking their guns apart and cleaning them.

There was an odd look on her face when she surveyed the parts spread neatly on the floor as Deacon cared for his sniper rifle. “I used to think this was so mysterious.” she said quietly. “Never thought I’d actually know what I was doing.”

"You around guns much before the big one?" he asked as casually as he could. When it came to Charmer and the past, it was best to give her plenty of room to escape the topic.

She dropped her gaze to Deliverer, traced her finger along its engraved lettering. “Soldiers were pretty common. You’ve seen how many old checkpoints there are out there. Weren’t too many families who didn’t have somebody in the army. Especially after Anchorage.” Charmer tucked a strand of hair behind her ear - it was starting to grow long again, longer than most born wastelanders could manage. 

Deacon rubbed the back of his head, felt the ginger stubble scratch against his palm. He was overdue for a haircut too. “You ever given someone a shave?” he asked, eager to divert off the path now that she had given her answer. Prying further was a recipe for disaster.

Her face twisted for a brief moment, as if she’d stubbed her toe. “Once or twice.” she said as smoothly as she could manage. Charmer was getting better at covering her outward emotions, learning how to mask what made her connect so easily with people. It was a crying shame, but a necessary one. Especially if they were going to try and infiltrate the Institute - which was becoming a bigger and bigger possibility as time went on.

“Excellent. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m starting to get a big of a problem here. Just lather my whole head up. Uh, except the eyebrows. Everyone gets upset if I take those off. ‘Creepy’ hasn’t been a necessary vibe for a while.” 

That evening he sat in front of her while she did her best tackling his head with a straight razor they’d found in a supply box. Deacon wouldn’t begrudge her a few nicks here and there, but he had no need to. She had a surprisingly steady hand. “Secret is to make sure the blade’s sharp.” She smiled at his quizzical look. “Saved money on a trip to the barber. Couldn’t afford that many luxuries with the economy the way it was.”

“Life must have been hard before the lawyer payroll. You eat boot leather too?” Deacon tried not to raise a brow and create a wrinkle for her to catch the blade on. 

Charmer exhaled. He could feel her warm breath on the back of his head, brushing down his neck. He hoped his goosebumps weren’t too visible. “Life was hard after it, too. Told you before. The world was already ending, the bombs just… got it over with. Hold still.” She placed her hand under his chin, tipping his head back so that he was looking up at her. Smiling, in the sad little way she did when dwelling on the past. 

Then the straight razor was at his throat. Instinct made him want to tense, to flee, but as he stared up into her eyes he felt an odd weightlessness.  _ Trust _ . She drew the blade up, slicing off the five o’clock shadow that had gone far past five and into next week. 

“Too bad Diamond City’s already got a barber.” He mused, when Charmer finished her work and tossed him a tower. “Suppose Goodneighbor’s got an opening, but market share is considerably smaller. Ghouls don’t have a great relationship with hair.”

“My talents are restricted to the Railroad, unfortunately.” She laughed, wiping the blade clean and surveying her handiwork. “Looking much more baby faced.”

“One of these days I’ll grow a beard. Long hair, too. Go full Jesus with it.”

The fourth day he was feeling well enough to move around a little. He sat on a stool near the firing range while Charmer practiced, giving her tips on her form until Glory came along and took over the lesson. 

Even though they’d spent three days with little company other than each other, he felt oddly resentful at the loss of her attention.

That night he realized their mattresses were moving closer together. He wanted to say it was of their own accord, but the times he awoke to see Charmer’s arm stretched into the gap between them spoke otherwise. 

The fifth day Charmer brought in a bucket of soapy, lukewarm water and a sponge. “Everyone’s avoiding our corner, and not because they value our privacy. Rock paper scissors to see who goes first?”

She’d won. Deacon turned around and kept an eye out, ready to shoo anyone away who came near. When she was done, he caught a glimpse of more of her than he’d ever seen - topless save for a stained sports bra, cargo pants unbuckled at her hip. His eyes were scanning before he could stop himself, instinctual habit, always looking to pick up details - faded silver lines around her stomach,  _ stretch marks _ , defensive scars on her forearms, an old burn at her ribs. Lean build, faint farmer’s tan. Intel was his job, and skin was a roadmap of personal history.

A map he found himself wanting to explore properly. The thought was intrusive. Hastily he grabbed the sponge from her, ripped his own shirt from his body (aggravating the wound on his collarbone, to his great dismay) and started to scrub aggressively at the gathered filth on his body.

Charmer tugged her t-shirt back on and cast him an apologetic look before taking his place as lookout. “Sorry. Tried to go as fast as I can so the water wouldn’t get cold, but looks like that was a failing battle.”

“I’m assuming this is payback for making you change outside.” He muttered, though it wasn’t the cold water that was making him shiver.

“Guess we’re even.” He could see her cheek swell from the side with a smile.

The sixth day, one of the runners brought in a crate of Fancy Lads from an abandoned grocer that became accessible thanks to a dodged missile. Drummer Boy brought a box over and the three sat together telling old Railroad stories and licking their fingers clean of icing.

That night, Glory returned from a job with a massive bruise on the side of her face. He could overhear worried murmuring from the other room, and resented being trapped at his post. Maybe he could creep in, hover behind one of the pillars without anyone noticing and shooing him back to bed rest. The urge to eavesdrop was strong.

Until Charmer rolled over in her sleep and threw her arm across his lap. Her body curled to press closer to him. 

For what was not the first and far from the last time, Deacon wondered how someone like him ended up next to her. He couldn’t muster up the willpower to nudge her away.  _ Weak. _

He lifted the book next to his bed ( _ Frankenstein _ , recommended by Charmer after she’d heard him call a Super Mutant that - though the monster within was far more articulate than a mutie could ever hope for) and picked up where he left off. 

The seventh day, they’d given themselves another stimpak injection and inspected their wounds. The quick stitching Carrington had done on Charmer’s leg had healed nicely. The burns on Deacon’s arms scarred, as predicted, but they weren’t sticking to his bandages anymore. His collarbone was a different story - stitches couldn’t fix it, and it was left to heal over. He’d have a little divot where it had burned his flesh away for the rest of his life. At least it had stopped being ambiently painful - while he was ever aware of the dull ache that radiated from it, the pain was only unbearable when he’d stretched too far or moved too fast.

Good enough to get back to the action, in his opinion. 

Desdemona seemed to think the same, because that night she paid them a visit. Deacon made sure to nudge his mattress a couple of feet over when he saw her coming.

“So. I’m sure you’ve been keeping count, but your seven days are up tomorrow morning. I said I’d have an assignment for you, and I do. Charmer, I’ve heard you have a good eye for salvage and have some experience helping out settlements. We plan on utilizing that.” Desdemona leaned against the stone sarcophagus that separated their corner from the rest of the mattress strewn hallway. Her eyes roamed over their living area - the collection of books, empty bottles of Nuka-Cola lined up against the wall, ammo boxes stacked in a little pyramid. “Tinker Tom’s not happy with the quality of hardware our runners are bringing back. I figure you might have a better idea of what to look for. Secondly - I’m sure Deacon’s told you that Switchboard wasn’t the only safehouse attacked. We have confirmed losses, others up in the air. While I intend on sending you on that line of investigation in the future, first we need a replacement.”

Deacon blinked. If Dez was implying what he thought she was, this was a  _ big _ responsibility. Usually safehouse setup was left to him and Caretaker, before Switchboard. If Charmer was filling Caretaker’s shoes…

“What do you need me to do?” Charmer’s posture was straight, body leaned forward ever so slightly in interest.

“Get to the location PAM’s deemed suitable, clear it of hostiles, build a beacon tuned to our frequency. Then the truly hard work - clearing out rubble and making the place livable. PAM wants to place to look like just another settlement to reduce suspicion, given the locale. You’re going to have to squeeze a lot of people in. Maybe families, though I’d like to try and keep children out of the line of fire.” Desdemona didn’t look pleased, but at this point - PAM was their best bet, and while there were some hiccups along the way the bot hadn’t steered them too far off course. “Deacon has experience with how to make things suitable for our line of work. PAM will give you the details.” She gestured out the door in the direction of PAM’s chamber.

Charmer stood up with a grunt, gait still slightly off from her wound. She paused on realizing that Deacon wasn’t following her.

Desdemona was giving him that  _ look _ again. He gave Charmer a reassuring smile and waved her off. 

Dez waited until Charmer was quite out of earshot before speaking, voice low. “Carrington wanted to split the two of you up. I’d agree, in normal circumstances.”

“Are you insane?” Deacon returned, keeping his voice equally low. “Look, I know we don’t have the agents to spare for solo work, but I can do my job much better if I’m following her around. People just  _ trust _ her. I mean, I do great work on my own, but with her-”

The Railroad’s leader raised her hand, stopping him. “That’s not our concern. Our concern is that she’s getting too close.” Dez folded her arms in front of her. “We have rules against fraternization for a reason. She’s aware they exist, but I don’t think she has the character for it.”

Heat washed over his body. “You think she’s fraternizing?” Deacon kept his temper in check, but he couldn’t keep the incredulity from his tone. “Look, Charmer’s like that with everyone. Ask Drummer Boy. Maybe it’s just how they were pre-war, but she’s friendly with everyone.”

“That’s what worries me.” Dez frowned. “She can’t compartmentalize. Comradery can be a good thing, but… I’ll speak plainly.”

“I appreciate it.” Deacon muttered.

“If that chip works and gives us insight into the Institute’s location, we’re sending the two of you in to infiltrate. You’re the best we have. I don’t have to tell you how much faith we have in your ability to blend, and Charmer’s charisma will more than make up for her inexperience. However.” Another look around the living area. “If either of you are caught, we’re in danger. I think you’re a soft spot of hers.”

He swallowed. The wound in his chest throbbed. The flames of his temper died, a chill settling over him. “You think they’ll use me against her.” It’s what he’d do. He couldn’t pretend not to notice how they found excuses to have brief moments of contact, couldn’t ignore how their mattresses grew closer. Deacon knew Charmer well enough to know  _ that _ wasn’t something she did with everyone.

“Yes.” Desdemona sighed. “It’d be best if we could separate you, send only one of you in - but we can’t afford to.”

Nausea was growing in him. The grim realization hit that if he and Charmer had any chance of getting out of this alive, cold water would have to be thrown on what little warmth they’d managed to find together. “Charmer can handle herself.” He said thickly. Trying to put the burden on Dez, desperate to avoid the duty that he could already feel perching on his shoulders.

“Maybe. But I don’t think she wants to, if she can help it.” Dez pushed away from the sarcophagus. “You helped develop our procedures. Defined the rules properly. Gave things purpose. See if you can make her understand.” 

“... yeah, boss.” He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, felt his heartbeat in his gut.   
  
Desdemona’s look was all pity. She never liked being the one to make the hard decisions, never enjoyed being the bad guy. Still, for all Carrington harped on her for being soft - it made her orders go down a bit easier.

“Good night, Deacon.” 


	13. Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier was always the snake.

People like her weren’t meant to have homes. They were unable to set down roots, however hard they tried. Doomed to wander whether they liked it or not.

Still. For three years, she thought she had managed something.

The Courier had run out with the others in Planting Season, sowing the next year’s crops before Storm reigned over the prairie. She witnessed the horizon turning black, heralding their flight back to the Silo. 

After her first year with them, she had been granted her own living quarters - a repurposed storage room, her bed hidden amongst the shelves. The townsfolk seemed to know she valued her privacy - or wanted to keep her at a distance.

The latter grew more obvious when the Season of Calm had begun and she slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder to see what she could salvage. Weaponry was rare in the Silo. Weaponry as advanced as hers was  _ exceptional. _ She couldn’t forget how Anne’s tone had shifted.

_ You were dangerous, weren’t you? _

\--

The man with dark eyes introduced himself when she returned from her salvage run.

_ Jack. _

He tried to help her carry her loot, but she brushed him off. He was insistent. Didn’t seem to take no for an answer.

She bristled, but acquiesced. 

“He’s a sweet boy.” Anne said later. “Hasn’t quite been the same since his mother died. All by himself now, you know. They came from Stalag, originally, but…”

The people of the Silo were fond of lapsing into personal histories, bearing an encyclopedic knowledge of family line and heritage. Perhaps that was partly why The Courier found it difficult to make friends.

She was a woman with no history. No origin, beyond the west. No name. She’d refused to give it, told them to call her Courier like everyone else on the cursed Earth. 

Still. Even with few friends and no company she could speak to of her previous life, living in the Silo was its own slice of heaven.

\--

In her third year in Kansas, early in the Dry Season, there was a rebellion in Bunker Town. Some of the youths wanted to explore further, to try and find a spot in the prairie that wasn’t at Storm’s mercy. The Courier had brought books back from one of her salvage runs - textbooks, some on American geography and natural phenomena - and it had spurred the teens to escape in the middle of the night in search of a better place.

_ A better place. Kids don’t know how good they have it. _

She felt old. 

Felt worse, when Bunker Town’s people insisted that she go looking for their missing children. They wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t for her, they said. Whatever goodwill she had built dissipated in an instant.

The Courier tracked them - followed the broken corn stalks, the ashen remains of fires. A week out of Bunker Town, several days after crops turned back into grassland, a storm hit. Not  _ the _ Storm, but one of the roaming bouts of rain and lightning. She found a storm cellar - the house that accompanied it long wiped off its foundations - and bunked down for the night.

She dreamed of him.

_ Boone _ .

It had been months since the last time. She was beginning to think that at last, her soul was free. In the Silo, she felt like another person, living another life, but here? She was the wanderer again, finding home in ruins and caves. Where once she’d nestle up against him for warmth, she shivered alone. The space left in her life still lingered. She was still shackled.

Her dreams shifted to The Dam. Walking across it, to the great wide East. Bearing witness to the scattered remnants of the Legion. Skeletons on crucifixes.  _ Him, _ strung up before her - the weight of his sins too great.

In the morning, the scent of smoke was strong.

She exited the storm cellar to see the landscape further north - along the teens’ trail - was blackened. Grass fire. A lightning strike must have caused it in the night - she could see the edges of it stretching further north, blown by the wind.

A lump formed in her throat.

\--

The first sight of camp was the skeletal structures of their tents, still standing. Blackened metal. 

The Courier stepped through the ash, coming closer to the ruined husks. The first bodies came into view. One, two, three of varying distances from the camp. Fallen to the ground, limbs curled from the heat. Fleeing the fire.

Two more were inside the tent closest to her. Another tent held one body inside, another fallen just in front of it.

The scent of burnt flesh brought back memories of Nipton. Crucifixes. Burning rubber. Burning bodies.

Seven bodies. Seven missing teenagers. 

The Courier turned her back on the camp and started the long journey to Bunker Town.

\--

It was only due to the general lack of weaponry - and fear of her - that she hadn’t been shot.

Women had wailed when she delivered the news. Men had shouted at her, red faced. She had given their children ideas, that one could roam the land unharmed, that it could ever be  _ safe _ . She was sent back to the Silo in cuffs. The Silo gifted preserves and some of their best textiles to Bunker Town in apology, and the Courier found herself confined to her room.

“Just until things are less fresh.” Anne had said when she gave her a tray of food. 

The Courier hadn’t much of an appetite. 

She slept as long as she could. She remembered an old verse spoken by a wasteland preacher -  _ and so Sin was brought to the garden _ \- and knew that the stains on her soul could not be washed away so easily.

\--

One night she awoke to the sound of her door opening and closing. Her eyes snapped open - it was dark, save for the dim green light of her Pip-Boy. She stopped sleeping with a knife under her pillow a few weeks ago, and was deeply regretting her choice now. 

A weight settled at the foot of her bed - she could make out a male silhouette. She wondered if she was dreaming - but there was a queasy feeling in her stomach.

“It’s me.”

_ Jack. _

He put his hand on her leg. She bolted upright, drawing her knees to her chest and backing toward the wall, blankets falling off of her. It jogged her memory, gave her that eerie feeling she knew came with the past before Goodsprings, before the gunshot, before the grave. The feeling this memory gave was visceral. 

“Get out.” she hissed.

He moved further up the bed. She had nowhere else to back up to.

“Please. I know everyone else hates you for it, but I don’t. I know you can become one of us.” He put his hand on her bare calf.

“Don’t touch me. This is your only warning.” The old memory was flaring in her chest. Fury was crawling its way up her stomach, through her throat - she was ready to breathe fire, if given the provocation. He would not touch her again.

“That’s why it’s so difficult for people. You won’t even tell them your name. You have to open up. You’ve been dodging me for months, this might not have happened if you-” Jack’s sentence was cut short. The Courier’s leg shot out, heel striking him in the nose. He fell backwards, head slamming against the metal bedpost before falling to the ground.

He was silent. The Courier could only hear her unsteady breathing. After a few moments, she crawled out of bed and grabbed her knife from her boot. Her approach of Jack was cautious. She knelt down, knife at the ready.

He was still breathing - with difficulty, as blood streamed out of his nose. She must have broken it.

Could have done worse.

As it was - she knew how these things went. Had been around the wastes long enough to know the score. Beloved citizen ends up attacked by a hated outsider? Only one way those stories ended.

The Courier dressed herself gathered what little possessions she’d brought east with her. Knife. Backpack. Rifle. Pip-Boy. Beret. Jacket.

Jacket. Stars and stripes and torn sleeves. Taken from the Divide. From the man who knew what she used to be.

Perhaps Ulysses was right about her. Death and destruction followed her. It was the fate of the Courier - no matter what she remembered, no matter who she tried to be.

The residents of the Silo weren’t prepared for someone of her caliber. She was imprisoned because she let herself be imprisoned. The guard immediately outside her room was gone - bribed by Jack or distracted, she figured. That made the work of slipping out easier - the Silo was a maze of pipes and dark corners.

She stole as many preserves as her pack could carry. She didn’t know how long it’d be until she found a settlement or town that Storm hadn’t wiped off the map. She couldn’t rely on the luck of storm cellars and basements.

It was late in the Dry Season. She had Planting Season to forge east before the horizon darkened again. 

The teenagers had made a similar gamble, and the flames cashed them out.

The Courier’s life was a gamble.

\--

The Silo didn’t come looking for her. This late in the season was too dangerous to go on a chase.

She made for the northeast, trying to get out of the plains. Her best bet for escaping nature’s rage - and trading it for rage of a different variety. The Courier almost missed the radiation. It was predictable. Predictably deadly, but as long as you stayed away from old waste and contaminated water, you were usually fine.

After several days travel she came across what she could only guess was a ruined city. All that remained of it were metal building frames - bent and twisted - and a few low concrete buildings. Even they looked as if they’d been peppered by missile fire.

The Courier couldn’t stop to make camp. She picked through the ruins, rifle at the ready - but it was a ghost town. What used to be cars were wrapped around metal pillars or crushed together at the end of a street. Rust was everywhere. Movement had to be careful.

There were no ferals. It seemed that here, any life that couldn’t put down the hardiest of roots was doomed to die come the Storm. There was, however, a perhaps prodigious marker still present in the town.

A rail line. It ran north east, just as she’d planned to travel. She tried not to remember those first days out of Goodsprings, when she’d found the train tracks and intended to follow them all the way to Benny. Tried not to think of when she and  _ him _ would sit on them and share a lunch after a long morning of travel.

Her journey went on. She could see the shifting color of the sky as the days passed, blue starting to turn more and more green. The Courier kept her eyes trained on her Pip-Boy, praying that when she hit the state line she might be safe.

Thunder began to roll in the distance. She could see the horizon behind her growing black.

The darkness spread quickly. Soon it was above her - but it had reached its limit. Only a few miles ahead blue sky awaited.

The Courier started to run.

Wind whipped at her, threatened to tear away her clothing. She took her beret in hand and held it tight to her chest. It was her talisman. It was why she had to keep moving, had to keep putting more and more miles behind her. Rain started to pour down.

A terrible sound began high up above her. Almost like a horn sounding, but ghostlier, lower. As if the dead themselves were coming for her. Something joined the rain - it felt like she was being pelted with rocks. Little white spheres hit her body, bouncing to the ground. Pea sized - but growing larger with time.

The sky’s edge was so close. She dared to look behind her as she ran, and she saw the clouds above twisting. Churning. Like water down a sink. Adrenaline shot through her, terror propelling her forward as the heavens moaned and roared. The hail was large enough to bruise, now - if she fell she didn’t know if she could get back up again.

Shadow turned to sunlight.

She made it. She crossed the threshold.

Battered, bruised, and gasping for breath, The Courier turned to behold the fury of the heavens.

Vortexes had descended from the sky - great and terrible things, ripping up the ground beneath them. They twisted across the landscape, writhing and coiling, dancing about each other. The horizon beyond was darkness, illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning - revealing a much larger vortex within.

The Courier had gotten her wish. She had seen a terror unique to nature, what men with all of their fire and fury could never hope to visit upon the world.

She turned her back on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter in detail of The Courier's travels until she gets to the Commonwealth, so if you're more interested in that things are going to rev up soon.


	14. A Long Way From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon prepares to burn it all down around him.

Fresh air was invigorating.

After a week stuck in the crypt, Deacon would kiss the sky if he could. Charmer seemed similarly revitalized, humming cheerily as they picked their way through the ruins of Boston.

They were giving Mercer another shot. The location chosen was an alley he and Charmer had cleared of raiders a couple weeks ago - a good sign, by his judgement. It was relatively hidden while still being right in the heart of the city, able to keep eyes on activities in Diamond City - and if they could clear out the apartments that lined the alley, it had the space to house quite a few.

Hangman’s Alley, wastelanders had called it. Deacon hoped the place wasn’t cursed.

It was at least abandoned by the time they arrived. The corpses of the raiders they’d killed were gone - probably dragged off by one of the various beasts that made their home in the Boston ruins - or worse, mutants. Together, they’d tugged plywood barriers off of the entrances to the apartment buildings - Charmer did most of the work after she heard the painful grunt he made as his wound flared to life. The buildings themselves were remarkably intact, and Deacon struggled to keep up with Charmer as she ascended the stairs two at a time, sweeping over each room with an increasingly widening smile. There was little rubble. Furniture was as intact as could be expected after being left alone for a couple hundred years and change. A few skeletons, here and there - but even they couldn’t put too much of a damper on Charmer’s mood.

“How did PAM know?” she wondered aloud once they’d reached the top level of the last apartment complex - sixth floor. It was a penthouse apartment with windows facing the north and granting a lovely view of the river. Empty, too - whoever inhabited it before the Big One must have seen the way the wind was blowing.

“I… don’t really know.” Deacon answered breathlessly. _ So many stairs _. “All she does is guesswork with a few fancy terms added. She’s not… always right.” He’d had to be talked down from turning PAM to scrap, once upon a time. One of many subjects he tried not to dwell on. “Lucky guess.”

Charmer walked over to one of the northern windows, pulling up the frame and leaning out of it. Deacon suppressed a wince - he’d lost track of how many times he chided her for making herself an easy target. Instead, he leaned against the wall and caught his breath, watching the wind rustle her hair. Tried to imagine how she was back before the war, if she’d leaned out of the window in her apartment in the theatre district. 

“Think we’d be allowed to keep this part to ourselves?” She turned her head to look at him, smile bright as the sunlight that shone on her. _ Glowing. _

Charmer was going to be the death of him, because instead of saying something about how it was probably best used for the cause - how it wasn’t a good idea for either of them to set down root anywhere - Deacon returned her smile. “I think we’ve earned it. Going to be a son of a bitch to move anything up here, though.”

“Can’t be any worse than killing a Courser.” She let her pack slip from her shoulders and dropped it in the middle of the floor. The hardwood creaked. “Come on. Saw a couple of cleaner mattresses we can drag up here for now.”

That first day, they’d brought up those mattresses and settled them in the middle of the room. Charmer found an oil lamp and placed it on a windowsill of one of the northern windows - a beacon for lonely souls. Charmer found the parts they needed for a radio beacon by scavenging in the apartments below - a satellite dish, a few metal parts and a handful of circuitry he had trouble making heads or tails of. 

“Where did you learn to do all of this, anyways?” Deacon asked, sitting up on a scrap fence while Charmer put the beacon together. “Thought you pre-war types bought everything you needed.”

“Dad was an oddball.” It was the first time she spoke of her father. He tried not to show too much interest, didn’t want to spook her. “Liked to build things, fix things. He basically took over the garage.” She smiled at the memory and tightened a screw. “He was a bit of a doomsday prepper. Said everyone was nuts for being so reliant on shopping. Wanted to get a chicken coop for the backyard but mom put a stop to that.” Her hand stilled, smile fading. “Sometimes I wonder if they made it through. He had a shelter in the basement. Knew how to manage out there better than most people. He and mom were pushing sixty, I know the odds are long, but…”

“If they raised you to be who you are, I’m pretty sure they made it.” Deacon wanted to reach out to her, place a hand on her arm - but Desdemona’s words were already echoing in his mind. He couldn’t make things worse. Couldn’t stop them, either - _ they had time _, he kept telling himself - but for now he could toe the line. 

Charmer wiped at her eyes and resumed her work. “So… what, were your parents in the circus?” she teased. Deacon would let her have that one. Easy change of subject.

“I wished. Nah. My upbringing was exceptionally boring.” That much was true, at least. “We ate grey paste for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I wasn’t allowed any toys or stories, only tax books. So, naturally, I rebelled.”

She chortled and finished fastening a metal covering to the bundle of circuitry. “Explains a lot.” Charmer set her screwdriver down and gave the beacon a once-over, turning the satellite dish in her hands. “Hey, I know you hate heights, but you mind helping me set this up?”

“The things I do for you.” 

They found a working fusion generator in one of the apartment basements. Charmer grabbed a cell from her pack and jammed it in, and with a little fiddling with the wiring the beacon was online.

That night they sat in the penthouse and cracked open a couple of Nuka-Colas. They poured in some rum they’d found in one of the apartments below and gave a toast to Mercer.

May she do better this time around.

\--

The next day Caretaker arrived with a couple of agents in tow, fidgeting nervously. Immediately he launched into a tirade on how the current defenses _ would not do _.

They were kept busy roaming Boston for salvage while the agents that came with Caretaker worked on cleaning Mercer up. They peeked into every dumpster, pulled open every tractor trailer. Deacon was sure they were on track for picking the Fens clean.

Tinker Tom’s assignment hadn’t gone forgotten, either. When they found a suitable terminal in one of the old office buildings, Deacon would hoist it up and they’d scurry their way back to Mercer. Once the other agents were done cleaning the place out, they started running the terminals over to Tom.

Each day Charmer asked them if he was ready to make progress. Each time the answer was no. At least they managed to get some spotlights and turrets in. Having even seconds of warning could mean the difference between life or death.

New agents drifted in. Some faces he recognized from Ticon. They brought their own salvage, began setting things up. Lights were strung up in an apartment with a pool table, and liquor started appearing in its kitchen. Gardens were planted in the dirt of the alley. With each return from their salvage run, new faces and new constructions appeared.

They didn’t need to keep making salvage runs, but for Charmer’s sake Deacon didn’t offer any protest. He knew what it was to need to be kept busy. 

The penthouse was slowly growing homier. They’d cannibalized a few pieces of furniture from the abandoned apartments below - a couple chairs, a card table to dine at, an end table. On their salvage runs things would catch her eye - a jukebox, a rug. Together they’d haul it back, dodging mutants and gunfire, cackling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. 

March rolled in, and with it, spring. The cold storms had died down to gentle drizzles. 

Charmer finally got all the parts for the projector she’d been collecting. Putting it together was proving to be a challenge for her - unwilling to interrupt her, he’d dipped out on a salvage run on his own. Word from Tinker Tom was that he was close to having what he needed, and Deacon was just as invested on getting things done as Charmer was.

He didn’t find a piece of hardware while he was out. He _ did _, however, find something almost as good. 

Deacon was picking through an old clothing store when he saw it. A chaise lounge, similar to the one Irma had back in the Memory Den. Charmer had mentioned wanting one, back in the old days. It sat on a raised dias between two mannequins - part of the decoration, not terribly used. The dust wasn’t too bad, even.

Was he insane? Getting something like that back to Mercer on his own was going to be slow going. Slow going tended to be dangerous in these parts.

The gate guard at Mercer certainly thought as much when Deacon struggled to drag the chaise lounge in through the scrap gate. 

Charmer’s face was worth it, though, when he hollered up at her window. She stuck her head out, and smiled the biggest smile he’d ever seen when she caught sight of the red couch. 

Together they brought it up the stairs and collapsed onto it once they finally set it down on the penthouse floor. They leaned against each other, shoulder to shoulder, and gasped for breath. 

“You… surprise me every day.” Charmer panted.

Deacon laughed breathlessly. “Well… I have to keep up with you… somehow…”

She placed her hands on his jaw before he could react, and placed a kiss on each cheek. “Keep it up.”

It stole his breath away. _ Fuck. He had it bad. _He looked around for distraction, anything to keep him from barrelling over that line he had drawn - and noted that Charmer had the projector set up, its light shining in a faint square on the wall.

_ One last favor. Before he had to go and ruin it. _

A few weeks after they first set up Mercer, they got the word from Tom. Deacon and Charmer were building a bed out of salvaged wood - he’d dibsed the chaise lounge, but couldn’t let her sleep on a mattress on the floor anymore, and there was no way they could drag a bed frame in through the door.

An agent knocked, entered. Told them that Tom had what he needed. Charmer kept her expression schooled into neutrality until the agent left. When he was gone, she tossed her hammer aside and threw her arms around Deacon in a tight hug.

“Ow. Ow, ow - Charmer, collarbone-” It didn’t hurt quite as much as it should have, but he was reaching for any excuse to put some space between them.

She pulled away, cheeks red. “Sorry. Just - Deacon. This is it.”

Deacon forced himself to smile back at her. Time was running out. “Yeah.”

\--

The penthouse was a home. The first home he’d had since the farm. Posters and paintings were tacked up on the wall, some of his picking, some of hers. She was surprised at his taste in art - all stormy landscapes and wheat fields. If only she knew. Shelves lined the walls, too - scrap planks hastily nailed up, stacked with boxes of ammo and supplies. The jukebox was propped in the corner, the fancy rug she had to have underneath it. Sometimes he caught her dancing there. The kitchenette had crates of drinks stashed in the broken refrigerator - Nuka-Cola, water, liquor and beer. The chaise lounge faced the wall that functioned as the projector’s screen, sitting at the foot of the bed they’d built together, mattresses from that first night placed on its frame. It was piled with blankets and pillows, the picture of comfort. 

His favorite part, though, was their library. 

It was a fancy armoire _ he _ insisted on bringing up. They stopped in at HQ to collect all of their books (earning a side-eye from Glory), and placed them in a proper home at last. This was what it must have been like before the bombs dropped, he thought. Having a space like this.

A physical manifestation of the life he had with her. The life that had grown over the past months, finally blooming in the spring.

_ He wanted this to be forever _. It hit him like a punch in the gut, knocking the breath out of him, painful, rendering him queasy. 

Deacon sat up on the chaise lounge, looking over at Charmer’s sleeping form on the bed, dimly lit by the dying candles on her nightstand. Her arm was stretched across the mattress, reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

He needed a walk.

Getting out was easy. Charmer could sniff out a lie well enough, but her sense of hearing didn’t have the fine tuned paranoia of someone born in the wasteland. He moved down the stairwell, catching glimpses into the apartments of others as he descended. Mercer had already started to grow beyond just agents - it had to keep up appearances as just another settlement. Families - refugees from Institute attacks - were guided in. Former agents like Caretaker, who burned out and couldn’t trust anyone else to house them. This rendition of Mercer was better than the first, brimmed with warmth. It reminded him of the first safehouses, back before they knew what it was to lose it all.

Part of him wondered if they’d overcorrected. If the cold detachment they’d adapted - at his word - hadn’t made them worse. The Railroad was more efficient, cleaner, they had fewer losses than ever - but he felt what little remained of his humanity falling away with every passing year. Charmer reminded him how precious this kind of belonging was. How it fired passion and drive to fight far beyond what ethics could ever hope to.

He found the still abandoned parts of the complex and walked down a dark hall. Echoes of laughter from the rec room sounded behind him, fading when he rounded a corner into a silent apartment. Slowly he walked through it, focusing on all of the little details, as Charmer did. Tried to imagine it lit up in the sun, glass on the windows intact. No dust, the paint bright, something cooking on the stove. He opened cupboard doors, seeing neatly stacked and dusty dishware. Pulled open a utility closet to see boxes of cleaning supplies. Imagined Charmer with a mop in hand, frowning over a muddy floor like she frowned at a difficult lock. The whole exercise was something he’d done as a child, trying to imagine the world as it was before, but now Charmer was a part of it. A part of _ him _. 

Deacon walked to the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. He stared at the moonlight streaming in through the window, listened to the rain fall in the background. He’d been trying to avoid all of this. While he’d kept Charmer at bay, his own heart was a different story. He was a sad, old murderer - he didn’t even deserve to lurk in her shadow as he did. Deacon squeezed his eyes shut.

Memories of a movie star smile, eyes that were the first to look at him like he was a man and not a boy. Barbara.

He’d been the death of her. She deserved better. Everyone did. And yet he was walking the same path, willing to throw himself off the cliff and make the same mistakes. Even if they didn’t sell the Railroad out on capture by the Institute, destruction followed Deacon like a ghost.

It’d be the death of everyone. No matter how it felt like a knife in the gut, how it hurt worse than the crater the Courser put in his chest - it couldn’t be allowed to continue. He spent minutes sitting in the darkness, coming to terms with it. Letting the grim reality settle.

Tom had given three weeks or so until he could crack the chip. By then, he and Charmer’s relationship needed to be professional. There was only one way he could ensure that.

Deacon opened his eyes. Immediately he caught sight of a box underneath the television set. It was a welcome momentary distraction - he didn’t want to have to plan to burn every good thing in his life down just yet. With a grunt, he lifted the television off of the box. He thought it was a table the first time he’d entered the room, but now he was certain - it was metal, with a tightly fitting lid. It hadn’t rusted. Good sign.

When he popped the lid open he was greeted with a treasure trove of holotapes.

She’d have something to entertain her when he was gone.

Charmer was still asleep when he’d returned with the box. He set it down next to the projector and crept over to the chaise lounge. She turned in her sleep, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tightly to her.

“Dee.” she murmured. 

He closed his eyes, and willed himself to die in the night.

\--

Charmer’s gasp woke him. Blearily he opened his eyes and saw her peering into the box of tapes. She picked one up, turning it in her hands to read the label. Her eyes widened, and she began to dig through the tapes. Certain ones were picked out, set aside. 

They were something interesting, at least.

He closed his eyes when she stood, pretending to be asleep. He heard her footsteps approach, felt a rush of air when she kneeled down next to him. 

Her lips pressed against his forehead. “Thanks, Dee.” she whispered.

Deacon was back to lying again as they ate breakfast - Sugar Bombs. It was easy to pretend to be happy - all he had to do was forget the doom that hovered over them. Charmer talked about how the cereal wasn’t the same without milk, that the caloric content probably worked in their advantage for once. He laughed and asked if brahmin milk really was so terrible, and laughed harder when he saw the disgust on her face.

An agent knocked on their door. Charmer nearly knocked the table over, she sat up so fast.

“Nothing about the package. Sorry, ma’am.” The agent began immediately. Deacon could see her deflate from his seat. “There’s a new assignment for you, though. Best stop in when you can.”

Charmer shut the door slowly and let her forehead rest against it. 

“Come on. They probably miss us. Well. Miss _ you _. I might stay here, they’d appreciate it.” he joked. 

She turned her head, cheek still pressed against the door. “Please don’t.”

He raised his hands into the air. “Fine. Let’s see what new and exciting job they have for us. I’m putting bets on Carrington being upset that we’re taking things easy. I’ve got a few decades of vacation time saved up and for once I decide to cash a few, and suddenly everyone’s upset.”

“Still trying to tell me you’re pushing ninety?” Charmer perked up a bit and started to gather up her gear. 

He was sure his smirk looked more like a grimace, but Charmer didn’t say anything about it. “You think it’s so unlikely that both of us look great for our age?”

She rolled her eyes in a way that had become more affectionate than he was comfortable with over time. “If you’re going to pull that card - come on then, you young whippersnapper. I’ve got at least a century on you, so you’d better be faster than me.” 

\--

Drummer Boy sprinted up to them the moment they’d opened the door. “Charmer! Deacon! Christ, it’s been a while. If it wasn’t for the reports on Mercer we’d think something happened. Uh, Carrington’s looking for you.”

“Shit.” He and Charmer muttered in unison.

Their little corner looked him in the face as they walked down the hall. He wondered if the memory of it would always sting.

HQ was quiet. Dez was nowhere to be seen, Glory was out along with a large chunk of the usual agents. 

Charmer’s eyes sought out Tinker Tom. There was a pile of computers behind him, a trash heap. The crypt was warm from the heat generated by the terminal currently hooked up to the Courser chip. “Hey, DC!” He shouted, having noticed Charmer waving at him. “Couple more days! We’re in the home stretch.”

There was a veritable skip in Charmer’s step. “Remind me to get you some Fancy Lads on our next run, Tom. You’re a miracle worker.”

“If you can find anything on their nanobots while you’re down there, I’ll call it even.” Tom returned.

Carrington was working on one of his stealth boys when the two approached him. “They’re starting to call you DC now.” His tone was dripping with disdain. “A package deal. I hope it’s just the gossip of idle agents.”

The doctor’s gaze was burning a hole into the two of them. Charmer wasn’t fazed.

“We were told you had an assignment for us.” Her tone was flat. She had an excellent way of handling Carrington - be boring. Give him no ammo to throw back in your face, don’t try to argue, and he was happy to get to the point.

“Yes. As _ one _ of you know, we had two other safehouses go dark alongside the attack on Switchboard whose status remains unconfirmed. I’d like you to check up on one of them. Augusta.”

Augusta. Big place. Old hospital, used a lot for agents injured in the field and one of the last stops in Boston for synths they were smuggling west out of the Commonwealth. If it was dark, it was a bad sign.

Carrington gave Charmer the coordinates for the dead drop and sent them on their way with a final dirty look in Deacon’s direction.

“It just me, or is he grumpier than usual?” Charmer murmured when they were wading back out out of the crypt.

“Just you.” Deacon lied.

Charmer paused. “Look. I got a bad feeling. About Augusta. And if we’re going to walk into a horror show and get shot up or worse, I want to have watched at least _ one _ of those holotapes.”

He should have said no. Should have told her that she couldn’t focus on such things, that they had important work to do. Instead, he grinned a cheshire smile at her. “Nobody has to know.”

\--

That night he and Charmer sat on the chaise lounge, cracked open a couple beers, and popped a tape into the projector.

It was like a spiritual experience.

For the first time, Deacon saw the world pre-war in all its glory - living, breathing, moving glory. Heard the sound of engines, saw how fast cars moved - the freeways before they collapsed. Diamond City when a game was on.

It was just a recording of the news, but he was in awe. The presenters spoke of rising prices, ongoing fuel shortages, the weather at home and in Anchorage, brave soldiers fighting up north. Sports news, a puff piece about a dog that had been trained to do all its owners tasks for them.

“Thought you’d like that.” Charmer said softly, when the newsreel had ended and Deacon was left with his mouth slightly agape. “I picked out some movies, too. Grab whatever pops out at you, I’m going to grab another beer.”

Deacon swallowed. “Get me one too.” he asked, then leaned over to inspect her pile. He wished they’d have the time to watch every one. Instead he just grabbed the one on top of the pile.

“Casablanca.” Charmer read it out loud when he handed it over. “Didn’t know you liked romances.”

_ If only she knew _.

“It came up a lot. Figured I might as well know what the fuss was about.” He shrugged. The lies were returning hard and fast. Lapsing into old habits was so easy when her life was on the line.

Charmer took in a deep breath, and he wondered if he’d regret the choice in film. “It’s a classic for a reason.” was all she said.

As the movie went on, he realized the reason for her hesitation. He found himself drawn in to the story as he had when he read a book, but something about film hit harder - made it _ real _. He couldn’t avoid the connections his mind was making. Older man, younger woman. Woman with a husband. Still, he was enraptured - the protagonist making the hard choice to let his old flame go.

Between this and Augusta, it was as if the universe was telling him he was making the right decision.

He heard Charmer sniff next to him when the film ended. “Sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Always cry at that one.”

“Didn’t want to pick out a movie that’d make you cry.” Deacon frowned, his own eyes feeling more watery than usual. “What kind of asshole makes a film like that, anyways?”

“The world was an easier place back then. Happy was the norm. People liked things that could tug at the heartstrings.” Charmer stood up and stretched. “There’s a such thing as a good cry, you know.”

“I don’t.” He reclined on the chaise lounge while Charmer turned off the projector. It was growing late, and they had Augusta to worry about in the morning.

He heard the creak of the bed frame signalling that Charmer had laid down. She blew out the candles.

“Good night, Dee.”

“Good night, Charms.”

\--

The minutes passed. He couldn’t sleep. He wanted to savor every last fucking moment before it all fell down around him, wanted to remember what this was like even if it’d twist the blade.

“Deacon?”

Charmer’s voice cut through the silence, small, hesitant. As if she didn’t want to wake him were he sleeping.

“Can’t sleep either, huh.” he rasped.

“No.” Several beats of silence. “I woke up twice. From cyrosleep.”

Whatever drowsiness may have threatened him was gone in an instant. He was wide awake now.

Charmer continued. “They…” She swallowed. “I was married. His name was Nate. He was a soldier.”

Deacon wished he could stop it once he realized what was happening. Wanted to cover her mouth and tell her he didn’t deserve to hear this, to beg for her forgiveness. He couldn’t. The part of him that had ran with the Deathclaws still existed. Was still selfish, still a coward.

“We married fast. The world was ending, y’know? And soldiers, well - they didn’t know if they’d be coming back from deployment, so… life just… went. I thought it was the right thing to do. Settle down, have a kid. It went so fast I didn’t really have time to sit down and think. To be in the moment.” A pause. “I knew him for less time than I’ve known you when we got married. Sounds like I was fresh out of my teens, not in my late twenties, but - I told you no one did much thinking right before the end.”

She was babbling, in the way he knew she did when she was trying to ramp up to a difficult topic. He only hummed in acknowledgement, let her know he was still there.

“When… when the sirens sounded, he took Shaun.” Her voice cracked, and his heart cracked with it. “They both went into the chamber. I told Piper that when I woke up Shaun was gone, but that… wasn’t it. Not all of it.” Her voice was growing tighter, thinner. “When… when they thawed the chamber to grab Shaun, it woke me up too. Nate - Nate wouldn’t let go.” 

“Charms.” he breathed. The unspoken implication hung in the air like a fog. No wonder revisiting the vault had broken her. No wonder she couldn’t stand the cold, no wonder she avoided Sanctuary as if her life depended on it. She had sobbed like she had when she first stepped into the sunlight not just because she lost a son, but because she had seen her husband die before her eyes. Her cries were the same he made, an age ago under the shadow of a hanging tree.

She didn’t cry now, though - or if she was, they were silent tears. Her voice grew even again. Her control was better than it ever was. He was proud of her. “No one knows that. Not even Nick.” 

It was her version of the secret. Spoken into darkness because she couldn’t bear him seeing her face. He wondered if he’d ever tell his, now. 

He couldn’t. He wanted her to remember that at one point in time at least he was someone who deserved to know her secret. That he was who she thought he was.

Still, he could offer her one last truth.

“I know what it’s like. To lose someone like that. In front of you.” Deacon stared up at the ceiling. “No one knows that either.”

The silence returned.

“Deacon?” she asked, after a period of time he couldn’t discern.

“Yeah?” he answered immediately.

“I’m glad I met you.”  
  
Maybe he’d throw himself from a building and make it easier on everyone.

  
  



	15. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire always finds him.

Deacon awoke the next day, to his utter disappointment. Dull grey light shone in through the windows. The humidity brought with it a chill. When Charmer woke up, he knew by the look on her face that today was the day they discovered the fate of Augusta. They set out early, before the people of Mercer started their daily routine.

It was drizzling, the sky overcast. Fog drifted over the river. In a month or two the landscape would turn green, but for now spring was monochromatic.

Not that Charmer seemed to mind. She had nothing but smiles for him as they walked to the dead drop, a bounce in her step. Enjoying the few moments of peace before Augusta would ruin them. Deacon had told her enough of the Switchboard event to keep her expectations low.

Still, it was hard not to feel a tiny glimmer of hope. Even if once they opened the dead drop a message had warned them to exercise extreme caution. Even if Charmer brought the Cyrolator along again, just in case. Deacon knew that somehow miracles happened around her - and if they didn’t, she’d make them happen herself.

Deacon let her lead the way, unwilling to have her eyes on his back. They rounded a corner and Kendall came into view. The outside of the hospital looked unremarkable save for the oil lantern on its doorstep. Still lit. The Railroad’s unspoken beacon, the light that guided them all. 

“You ready?” Charmer had asked him with her hand on the door latch. He only nodded.

The inside was a horror show.

Immediately the smell of burnt flesh hit their nostrils. He saw Charmer jerk with a suppressed dry heave. She tugged her scarf up over her nose and held Deliverer tightly. By now he was used to this sort of thing - more than he’d ever wanted to be. It was like living in a split reality, part of it routine and part of it reigniting fierce memories.

At first, it seemed as if raiders were the reason Augusta went dark. The choice of decor made it clear that they had been there a while - some caged prisoners had already rotted to the bone. He recognized some of the heads turning black on spikes.

The raiders were scattered, at least. Charmer took them out, Tommy Whispers’ gun silent as its owner’s namesake. They crept through the ruined building, doing their best not to vomit when they entered the hospital entrance atrium. Charred corpses were piled in the center of it, still burning. Even more were stacked on a hand cart. He didn’t know if Charmer’s eyes were watering from grief or the smoke. She turned to investigate the perimeter of the room, keeping her distance from the pile. Deacon counted the people he recognized. Names to put down in their book of the dead.

“Dee.” Charmer whispered, gesturing for him to come close. In the corner of the room, half buried by a toppled book shelf, was a Gen 1.

It wasn’t raiders.

_ Shit. _

“The boss’ office is upstairs.” Deacon murmured. “Might have some clues about how this went down.”

Charmer nodded her agreement. “Make sure we clean the place out. Who knows how many caravans they’ve already picked off from this spot.” Always thinking beyond the immediate problem. Looking out for everyone, synth or no. It made his chest hurt.

Deacon guided her through the scrap constructs that made up Augusta, additions to the hospital’s ruined structure that made it a little more like a town. God. Losing Augusta hurt. The place was only topped by the Switchboard when it came to agents housed, and here it was. In flames.

They so often ended in flames.

The two picked their way through. By now they had a synergy that made them deadly in urban combat. Places like this were their hunting ground - Deacon with firepower, distance and distraction and Charmer with silence and an ability to quickly close the distance. After an hour or so of painstaking progress - and Deacon nearly getting a bullet to the head - they reached Augusta’s main office. The floorboards were black with old blood stains.

Charmer found the holotape hidden in a box on the main desk. Deacon made sure the area was clear of hostiles, then Charmer popped the holotape into her Pip-Boy.

The voice on the other end was eerily calm. Whispering.

_ “We are under attack. Repeat. We are under- My God. Listen Augusta's not going to make it. They're going to be here any second. They knew exactly where we were. Tell-” _

Charmer’s breath caught in her throat. The agent’s tone clearly unsettled her - as did the faint screams and shots in the background. Deacon was counting the cracks in the wallpaper to keep his mind from remembering the few times he’d heard those same noises.

“They knew exactly where we were?” Charmer whispered to him, lines of concern etched in her forehead.

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. Usually we get sightings of them nearby ahead of time if they’ve got suspicions about a safehouse location. If they had no warning, then…” Deacon swallowed.

“An inside job.” she breathed.

“Maybe. Augusta had a lot of bodies moving through it. Someone could have gotten clumsy. Gotten caught. Still, shit. We’re going to have to go through everyone, make sure no one’s gotten replaced. It’s the reason we have the countersign, but sometimes people get lazy.” He glanced at the doorway to the room. “This is the talk to have at HQ, not here.”

Charmer nodded. “How much more do we have left to clear?”

“Just the lower levels of the back atrium.” It was the best descriptor he had for it, seeing as how it was floor on floor of scavenged wood surrounding a pit. “Let’s go.”

True to his word, there were a few last raiders hovering around the lower level of the atrium. As they circled around it, Deacon got a good view of the ‘pit’ - and the cage that had been lowered into it. A lump formed in his throat after they killed the last raider, realization dawning.

“It’s an arena.”

Charmer followed his line of sight and walked to the wooden platform’s edge. “Shit.” she murmured, leaning over to get a better look. “Fucking sociopaths.”

He heard the floorboards creak - then it was too late.

The wood beneath Charmer’s feet splintered, sending her tumbling down into the pit. She didn’t scream. The only noise was a dull thud below.

“Shit!” he yelled, panic rising in his throat like bile. He came close to the edge as he dared, though ready to jump in after her if she didn’t answer. “Charms?!”

“I’m okay.” she called back up at him. Charmer rose to her feet and dusted herself off. He breathed a sigh of relief when she waved.

“Tell me the next time you start thinking about going down. Can you see a way out of there, or am I going to have to find some rope?” Something in his instincts was screaming urgency. Probably the sight of her in a bloodied arena was enough to keep him panicked.

Or so he thought, until they both heard a deafening  _ slam _ as something very heavy hit the ground.

A deathclaw.

“RUN!” Deacon screamed, but Charmer was already ahead of him. She ran around the cage, putting some distance between her and the deathclaw. Deacon took aim with his rifle and pulled the trigger, peppering the mutated creature’s thick hide with bullets. 

It distracted it for the moment. The deathclaw whirled in Deacon’s direction and sprinting forward, leaping high enough in the air for its claws to rip at the edge of the wooden flooring he stood upon. Charmer took advantage and dashed to the hole in the wall the deathclaw had come in from - through gaps in the wall he could see her find a set of double doors and desperately try to open them, to no avail.

The worst thing about deathclaws was that they were smart. Realizing it could not reach Deacon, the deathclaw gave up on that particular hunt and began to sniff around for Charmer. 

He leapt off the edge. “HEY!” Deacon shouted, squeezing the trigger again.

With its prey now within reach, the deathclaw turned and roared so loudly he could feel the vibrations in his chest. Charmer had done something in the hallway, turning the lights back on. Deacon lunged out of the way as the deathclaw charged, using the arena’s cage as a barrier between him and the creature.

“I got it!” Charmer yelled - he could see her pulling the double doors open before the world turned upside down.

The deathclaw had picked him up.  _ The deathclaw had picked him up.  _ It was the only thought that went through his head before he was sent sailing across the room.  Reflex saved him - when he hit the ground, he was up and running. His collarbone was throbbing in agony again. Charmer was still waiting by the door for him.

“GO!” The deathclaw slammed into the wall behind him, and Charmer brokered no argument. He followed her into the hall beyond the double doors, and could hear the deathclaw ripping at the doorway to try and create a hole big enough to get through.

Charmer’s geiger counter was ticking. They could be walking out of the frying pan and into the fire.

A quick death by rad poisoning was probably better than being gutted by a deathclaw, at least. Life’s small silver linings.

They went through another door, and her geiger counter grew quieter. It was silent by the time they reached the surface, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Make sure we tell HQ that.” Deacon was doubled over, trying to catch his breath. “About the deathclaw. They’ll quarantine the area, as they should.”   


Charmer uncapped her canteen and took a long drink before speaking. “That the way you guys usually handle deathclaws?”

“They’re territorial. Once they set up shop, whole area’s a black zone if you know what’s good for you.” 

“Well.” Charmer smiled grimly. “If we’re lucky it’ll reach the lower levels and make sure no one else finds out about what Augusta was.”

He hoped the Railroad’s luck wasn’t about to run out.

\--

It was misting rain by the time they were halfway back to HQ. The sense of impending doom grew larger by the second, and by the time they could see the spire of Bunker Hill in the distance he knew he was nearly out of time.

Deacon gathered up everything he’d become over the past several months with Charmer and shoved it down. He pulled back on the mask of an earlier man, a worse man, and braced himself for the coming storm.

“You know. After seeing what happened at Augusta… I’ve been thinking.” he began lightly. 

As she had so many times before, Charmer cast him a skeptical look and only slowed her pace. He was using the tone he had when he was about to try and teach her a lesson, about to lay down a lie. It was habit. As far as lies went, this was a big one.

“Thinking about the ripple effect. If anyone there was sloppy - the Institute will be tracking down their family members next. That’s the thing about connections in our line of work. They’re dangerous.” Deacon maneuvered his tone into something serious but not morose. He lapsed so easily back into lying with even his body language to her that it made him a little sick.

Charmer’s expression faltered. This wasn’t a fun lie. This was a grim reminder of what was really at stake. What the reality of the situation was, for the people who didn’t have her run of luck. She stopped walking. “What do they have to gain from killing innocent people?”

“Fear.” Deacon paused beside her. He kept his hands in his pockets so she couldn’t see any tells. His entire posture spoke of him just telling her another story, another lesson. Another truth. “You know, some people at HQ are jealous. You took the Big Nap and everyone you knew is long gone.”

There it was. The abrupt stiffening of her posture, the way her face seemed to wither. She’d worn the same look when they faced down the Vault. He knew her heart. Knew how to pierce it.

“Wait, hear me out on the silver lining.” If anyone else was speaking like he was just then, he’d have been incandescent with rage. As it was, he kept his internal rage smothered. It was necessary if he was going to continue to trample her like he was under the guise of ignorance. “Normally if you slip up in the Railroad you expose friends and family to danger. You’re free from that. If the Church gets burned, you’re not putting anyone in harm’s way.”

Charmer’s jaw clenched like it had before she executed the Courser. Her eyes darkened. “So, what - you’re saying that losing my family was a good thing? That I have nobody to worry about? What about Piper? Nick? Preston? Fuck, Dee, what about  _ you _ ?” It was a glimmer of what he’d imagined she’d been like in the courtroom, arguments coming forth from her mouth like fire, burning down everything in her path. The pride he felt for her was another knife.

“Christ, no, I’m not saying losing them was a good thing - just that there’s a silver lining to it.” He raised his hands in surprise, acting as if she was being the unreasonable one here. “Anyways, Piper and Nick have themselves in the Institute’s sight with or without your involvement. And you’ve only seen Preston in months.” Stabbing at her guilt, trying to bleed the fire out. Still he kept his tone aloof, relaxed. “And what about me?”

Charmer was incredulous. “Deacon, if this is a lie it’s a real shit one.” 

She took his silence as a no. It set off an atomic bomb of rage in her.

“Don’t fucking tell me that you don’t think we’re-” There was a pause that made his heart skip. “-that we’re  _ friends _ . That you don’t think I care. That I don’t worry that something will happen to you if I fuck up.” She was having difficulty voicing her thoughts, swearing more to fill in space and give her time to grapple. "That you don't make every step easier."

Deacon didn't have to work hard to let his shoulders sag. Radiating disappointment was more difficult, but he managed. Speaking was harder. Charmer's conviction had a vice grip on his chest, entangled in his ribs. “Shit. I should have told you sooner.” he muttered.

Charmer froze. He saw her hands clench into fists. Watched her inhale deeply and exhale slowly. “Told me what?” she asked, her tone now neutral. That scared him. He liked being able to predict what would happen, what emotion to expect.

“I’m not Carrington, pal. I can’t be boring and keep a stick up my ass all the time. I like to have fun. I think it’s the best way to keep sane doing what we do.” Deacon began. Each word tasted like ash on his tongue. “But however much fun I have, whatever we talk about, whatever we do - I know you can be gone in an instant. Replaced by the Institute in an instant. You’re my partner. Coworker. We haven’t been split off into solo work yet, so you don’t know that if we’re not together  _ I don’t know you _ .” He stressed every word, even as Charmer flinched at it. “Look, it’s my fault. I thought you’d be able to roll the same way. Most people can’t. But listen to me - we can’t afford to be friends. You need to be able to shoot me at a moment’s notice.”

Charmer stared at him. Her eyes were piercing. Deacon saw them roam over his face, scrutinizing him for any tell, any sign. Again her jaw clenched - there was a tremble to her chin. She stepped forward, cutting the distance between them.

“I don’t believe you.” she whispered. “Not after all of this. You wouldn’t have done any of it if you didn’t care.”   
  
It was like a slap in the face. He’d failed to bluff her, and now she was so close he could smell her, soap and linen. But he couldn’t afford to back down.

“You’re the best agent we’ve had, of course I’m going to try and keep you at your best. I told you I lie to everyone, right from the start. Fuck’s sake, Charms. I told you I’d tell you the truth when it mattered. It matters.” The magic words. Deacon knew he’d claimed victory when he saw sudden doubt flash in her eyes. The subtle way she retreated in on herself was obvious to him, after travelling with her for so long.

“You’re doubling down.” Still, she was holding onto the rope slipping through her fingers. She was holding onto  _ him _ . 

“Look - I’m sorry. If there wasn’t the Institute hanging over our heads, I’m sure we’d be the best of pals.” He cleared his throat and stepped back from her. The distance between them felt like a sudden abyss. It was like he’d taken a knife to the knots their lives had tied around each other. “Don’t feel so bad. You’re the best agent we’ve had. I mean it. Working with you, seeing what you do - it’s a pleasure. I’m glad I’ve been able to tag along.”

Deacon wanted to gut himself to try and cease his stomach from twisting. He could see the seeds of doubt blooming in her in real time, see her perceptions shatter. But there was still a spark of anger in her, however smothered it was.

She opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she’d meant to say died on the tip of her tongue. Instead she let her hands unclench - he could see the marks her nails had made on her palms. Her fingers still quivered. Charmer’s expression was a funhouse mirror of the looks she’d given him before - it still held the same level of intensity, but soured, corrupted, withered like a ghoul. Deacon read once that hate and love were opposite sides of the same coin, and for a moment he wondered if she hated him.

That would be admitting that she loved him, first, and he couldn’t live with that.

“Carrington will want to know what happened.” Charmer spoke at last, words clipped. Professional. Civil. He hated it, but this is what he wanted, wasn’t it?

“Tom should be almost done with that chip.” Deacon agreed. 

They continued on to HQ in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad train has left the station, but we're not going to be on it forever, promise.


	16. Edge of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier reaches Boston at last, and receives an answer.

It took her four years to get to the sea.

Ever travelling east, diverging from her path only to avoid areas of great danger. It took her north, sometimes, but she’d always return to due east as soon as she was able.

Several times she had to pause. Settlements were starting to grow in number, and when her food supply ran out caps were necessary to trade. She’d do odd jobs to eat and regain her purse. There were places she’d hung around for months when she ran out of ammo and had to earn a great deal of caps to resupply, or when she’d gotten less lucky in a fight and had an injury to treat. Unlike with The Silo, however, the Courier had no delusions that she ever could stay.

Sometimes she had travelling companions. As she drew further east, caravans started to appear. It was best that way - the caravans were familiar with the territory, the Courier was familiar with killing. It kept her belly fed and her mind busy.

At times she nearly died. A radscorpion sting. A catastrophic radstorm. A ledge she’d misjudged, a trap she hadn’t seen. For some of them, she was lucky enough to reawaken after losing consciousness. For others, she’d successfully dragged her broken body to the nearest settlement. It was these that ate up more time than anything - this constant reminder that she could not die, not yet. That every time she tried she’d wake up in some wasteland doctor’s clinic thinking it was Doc Mitchell’s again and she could run to Novac and find  _ him _ .

More than anything, she tried to avoid making a name for herself. Misfortune draped itself over her like a miasma. She didn’t intend on continuing to burn the world down around her.

She bore witness to the tribes of the Great Lakes and their boat stories, saw the edge of West Virginia’s irradiated mountains and ghost forests. Walked through the Pitt, a city retaken by slaves. Felt the heat of the great forges on her face. Sights she could never have imagined in the Mojave - the first proper trees, ones with  _ leaves _ that turned color. Moss. Radstags.

The Courier ever looked to her Pip-Boy, watching on its map as she drew closer and closer to the edge of the world.

At last, she crested over a hill and beheld a great ruined city, perched on the shores of an endless stretch of water. The Courier smelled the sea for the first time - salt and life and secrets. 

_ Boston _ .

She moved through the city deliberately, soaking in every sight. She’d seen so many others like it before, but this one felt… more colorful, somehow. The Courier slipped through alleys, evaded mutants, all to at last reach the rocky shores of the Atlantic.   
  
It was like the Great Lakes, when she looked at it. Navy blue water stretching to the horizon - only she knew this was even bigger, something that no one had crossed since the war, not even in myths and legends.

The Courier stepped out onto the pebbles, shaky at first. A great god lay before her, and she trembled. Six years, since she had left the Mojave. Six years that had earned her another layer of scars, worn her soles into boot leather. Six years that had blasted away nearly all feeling. For so long she had been numb, shielded from remembrance.

She took off her pack, then her boots. A few steps further down the shore. Then her clothes. It was like a voice was commanding her, urging her to run and  _ leap _ .

So she did. The Courier’s legs hit the icy water of late March, but she did not stop. The water rose to her hips, her chest, her neck. She didn’t know how to swim too well - in the Mojave it was a rarely utilized skill - but she did not panic when the waves crashed into her and water rose over her head.

She stood there, under the water, ice in her veins and lungs. Her arms were outstretched, eyes closed - breath trailing out of her. She didn’t know if she expected some great creature of the deep to finally claim her, to drag her into the darkness. Maybe she was just waiting for the end to strike her.

The waters around her churned. Her body was battered to and fro. She lost all sense of direction. Her lungs started to burn, starved for air.

Suddenly - the surface. Cold air, taken in with great gasps. The end did not come. The sea had spat her naked back on the shore.

The cold air was a shot of adrenaline. With her shuddering body, emotion returned. She had been reborn on the rocky shore, the aggregated dust and armor she’d built over the years washed clean. She wept.

This was her answer. Her work was not yet finished. The Courier hadn’t died for her sins. Instead she would have to repay them.


	17. Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It runs deeper than he thinks.

As soon as they stepped through the back door of HQ, Charmer had tossed her backpack aside with more force than usual - he could swear he heard something break. But her demeanor was cool, collected - she strode into the main chamber with all of her gathered professionalism. He wondered if that was how she walked into a courtroom, could feel fear echoing across centuries.

Deacon had seen what it was to be on Charmer’s bad side. Now he felt it - all the force and fire she reserved for those she cared about, flipped on its head. 

Desdemona must have picked up on the change, for when Charmer approached the central planning table Dez gave Deacon a questioning look. He merely nodded, and the Railroad’s leader appeared to relax.

_ For everyone’s safety. _ He told himself, for what was certainly not the last time. He leaned against one of the crypt support pillars while Desdemona ushered Tinker Tom over.

Charmer shifted her weight from foot to foot. Anxious. He watched her heels lift back and forth, the subtle release of built up tension.

“We got the code.” Tinker Tom exclaimed, and a cautious smile crept over Charmer’s face.

“You’re a miracle worker, Tom.” she exhaled, releasing the tension that had been plaguing her since they first gave him the Courser chip. “I’ll get it back to my contact and tell you what our next step is.” 

“We’ll let you know if we find anything else of interest to you on it. Tom’s working on sequencing data kept in it - it might grant us a greater understanding of how synths work. They barely know themselves.” Desdemona placed her palms on the stone table. Tom took his leave and sauntered back over to his research area. Deacon meant to follow, but Dez cut him off. “Don’t try to sneak off just yet, Deacon. Caretaker’s been keeping me updated on Mercer’s progress.” She looked between him and Charmer.

Deacon, like Charmer, was careful enough to keep his feelings on the matter hidden. Dez let a moment or two of silence pass to let them sweat before continuing. 

“I’m impressed. After we let the new denizens acclimate, I’ve been told opening up shop is a possibility. If we can funnel caps in along with food and supplies we’ll finally be self sufficient again.” It had always been a bit of a pipe dream, having a place to make them truly independent. Relying on caravans was dangerous. Besides, if any of the history books Deacon read were true, feeding an army was the most crucial part. 

Good thing he knew a thing or two about farming.

Dez brought him back from his thoughts when she gave him a brief nod of respect. “Good work. I think we all needed a reminder of why we put up with you.” 

“Dez, that was almost a joke.” Deacon beamed. “What do I keep telling you? I know what I’m doing. Don’t question the method.” It felt odd, acting as he used to. He’d grown so accustomed to having shed a few layers that a return to form was almost stifling.

Charmer’s posture was stiff. 

Attention pivoted to Charmer. “Now - for what I’m certain is bad news. What happened with Augusta?” Dez leaned forward on the stone table, bracing herself.

“Institute got to them.” Despite her stiff posture, Charmer’s tone was even and smooth, if a bit grim. “Same scenario as the Switchboard, except this time raiders moved in after. We cleared them out, but they have a deathclaw in the basement.”

Desdemona frowned, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Shit.” She struck the table. “I’ll have to put the area under quarantine. Damn. We had a lot of good people there, but I think we all suspected the worst. Well.” A deep sigh. “I’ll leave you to make contact with whoever can use that code. I’m certain we’ll be kept busy with what you come back with.”

Charmer was silent for a moment. “I’ll catch some rest here for a bit. Need to be at peak performance for where I’m going. Is… is Carrington around?”

“A question, until now, asked by no one.” Deacon murmured. Charmer paid him no mind. It stung worse than he thought it would.

“He’s in with PAM. You should update your logs, while you’re there.” Desdemona advised. “When I gave the two of you a week of bedrest, I didn’t think it’d make you so desperate to steer clear of HQ. The entries are out of date.”

“And PAM’s nagging you about it.” It was hard to keep the _ I-told-you-so _ out of his voice. Every time the machine acted up, he was reminded of why he’d once so ardently wanted to see her in a scrap heap. “If Charmer’s taking a day’s break, I’ve got a tourist in Diamond City to check up on before I make my updates.” He dared to look over at his now uncharacteristically cold partner. “Terminal’s all yours. Feel free to be as verbose as you desire.”

“I’ll get to it.” Charmer turned on her heel and marched toward PAM’s room before he could get another word in edgewise.

When she was out of earshot, Desdemona cast him a questioning look. “She didn’t take it well?”

Deacon shrugged. “Everyone has trouble with it the first time.” Half-truth. He’d never gotten so close with anyone before. Never let them act the way Charmer could. They'd grown together like wasteland vines and he'd cut them apart with a machete. Trouble was an understatement.

“I hope you haven’t turned her off of the cause entirely.” Ah. There was the crux of the issue. Charmer's perception of him wasn't a worry. Railroad agents frequently operated on tense terms with each other. He and Glory being a prime example. He and everyone, really, at some point in his life. It was only a matter of time before Charmer joined the club, he told himself. It didn't make him feel any better.

“Charmer’s gold. I mean it. Not the type to grow disillusioned with the cause because of something like little old me.” He couldn't help singing her praises. Deacon flashed his best smile (though it felt like a grimace) and adjusted his sunglasses.

“I pray you’re right. We can’t afford to lose her.” Desdemona dropped her gaze back to the planning table. Model vertibirds and toy soldiers. The Brotherhood had started to swarm out of their airport hideaway, and things were starting to get tight. Greater things were at stake. “Dismissed. Not that you were waiting for it.”

“You know me well.” 

Greater things were at stake, but his mind could only focus on the ice in Charmer's voice, played on repeat.

\--

When he came back from Diamond City, Charmer was gone. She said she’d linger back a day. It had been six hours since he departed that morning, and she was haggling with Carrington when he left.

He gave HQ a quick once-over. Then a longer twice-over. He asked Drummer Boy if he’d seen her. Nothing - he’d been sorting out coded messages. Then Tinker Tom. Nothing. Tom’s focus was for the chip and nothing else. Finally, he had to admit defeat. A heaviness was settling over him, a faint dread. 

“Hey, Dez.” he began casually, curiously. As if wondering what happened to a particularly large dust ball in the corner.

“Deacon.” Dez didn’t look up from her work, reading through the messages Drummer Boy had translated, cigarette in hand.

“Charmer anywhere around here?” He tried to peer at what she was reading. Power armor sightings. _ Interesting. _

“She left early.” Desdemona replied before taking a drag from her cigarette. “After the work the two of you did with Mercer and Augusta, I didn’t think I had a right to ask questions.” A glance up from her papers. “Timing was strange. I think she was waiting for you to leave.”

Even though he’d never be able to shake the image of Desdemona as a green recruit from his head, even when she was fresh faced and eager she had a way of looking at people. A way that made you feel as if you didn’t want to disappoint her - that she had her suspicions about _ something _ and your next words had better be chosen carefully. It burned away the panic that was threatening to crawl out of his mouth, temporarily silenced the voice in his head that was all too aware of the impending isolation. 

“I don’t think she’s really good at saying goodbye.” Deacon brushed it off despite the rising panic in his chest. So this was the true end result. Hoping to follow in the shadow of her disdain was too much. Charmer respected herself more than that. She didn’t need him, didn’t have to suffer the distance he’d forced between them for the sake of survival. “Keep me posted if she checks back in. I want to know what she finds out from that code.”

“I’m certain it would be impossible to keep from you even if I wanted.” Desdemona said flatly, returning her attention to her papers. “Don’t forget to check in with PAM on your way out. I think she has another DIA cache to track down.”

“Perfect.”

He was flying solo again, and if he didn’t drown himself in work he was fairly certain he’d drown himself in the Atlantic.

\--

The repetition that he had done it to ensure everyone’s safety was one of the only things that helped him keep it together in the following days. Charmer's absence was palpable. He'd turn to his side at certain sights, expecting to hear her commentary. Opened his mouth to tell her about a nearby terminal, only to remember that he was alone. He wore another wig, another disguise, contemplated changing his face. If he ran into her, he didn't want her to know.

Deacon respected her decision too much to follow her outright. He'd stalked her once, and she didn't appreciate it even when she had a better opinion of him. Nevertheless, his sources painted an image he could piece together. She stopped in on Hancock in Goodneighbor, stayed a few days in Mercer and was sighted at Vault 81. The last sighting of her was by a tourist camped to the southwest of the Vault. There was only one thing if she kept going in that direction.

The Glowing Sea.

There was nothing regarding her for several days. Deacon did the Commonwealth rounds, checking in on the people who acted as his eyes. Running favors, soothing nerves. The zeppelin in the sky had put a severe damper on willingness to aid the Railroad. The lack of hearsay about her didn't bother him terribly, nor did the possibility that she had ventured into an irradiated hell.

She killed Kellogg. She took out a Courser. All with the background of a prewar lawyer. Environmental hazards were child's play for her. His Charmer would have to be felled by something a hell of a lot more impressive than that.

_His Charmer_.

Perhaps separation was for the best.

\--

When next he returned to HQ, Drummer Boy told him to check in with Dez.

She was in PAM’s room quietly debating with Carrington. The two of them fell silent immediately at his arrival.

Never a great sign.

“Charmer checked in.” Desdemona began immediately. “Her contact gave her schematics. For a teleporter. She and the runners we can afford are tracking down the parts. There’s a catch, unfortunately.”

“The teleporter requires a massive amount of power and is only able to send one person before consuming all available resources. Tom believes that while unstable, it should be functional for at least the one party.” Carrington picked up. He cast Desdemona one of his milder glares. 

“I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say you were debating on who to send in.” Deacon sauntered further into the room.

Dez and Carrington exchanged glances. “Yes.” Desdemona began, but Carrington cut her off.

“You’re our only infiltrator of the skill necessary to succeed in this assignment.” _ That _ took him off guard. Praise from Carrington was high indeed. “Knowing our luck it’s likely we’ll have only one chance at this.” The good doctor was usually unwilling to divulge any information unless he absolutely had to - the fact that he was telling Deacon this was purely in hopes that he’d help Carrington win the argument. “If we send in an inexperienced novice, who we trust _ only _because of someone’s word-”

“My word.” Deacon cut in.

“-we can lose everything.” Carrington finished. Desdemona let out a long suffering sigh.

“Charmer has done all of the leg work. If it wasn’t for her we wouldn’t have the chip or any of this information to start with. I think she has the right to go first. Her son’s in there, Carrington.” Dez chided gently.

“How many other children have they taken? Should we allow every parent in the Commonwealth to draw straws?” Carrington hissed. These quiet arguments were surprisingly heated for being held in whispers.

“I agree with Dez.” Deacon spoke up and silenced the two of them. “Charmer’s a better liar than you think. I’ve taught her all I got. Stakes are high for her. She knows more than anyone that failure isn’t an option. She won’t let it be a possibility.” Speaking of her made a tightness grow in his chest. An ache. Still, even if she despised him now, he knew that no one in the world could take entering the Institute from her. 

Carrington looked suitably betrayed. Deacon couldn’t blame him - he’d gone so far as to nearly compliment him, and received nothing in return.

Desdemona was pleased. “I’m not alone in this, Carrington. It’s not unreasonable. We send Charmer in.”

The doctor folded his arms and scowled. “I suppose at the very least if the machine explodes we’ll have a back up option. Fine. But if anything changes with her between now and when we get the parts-”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Desdemona interrupted. She cleared her throat. “Well. Now that that’s in order - we’re constructing the device at Mercer. Stay in Boston, if you can. In case anything does go wrong, I want your perspective.”

Deacon wondered how good the odds Tom gave them were. What percentages Pam had offered. When Dez and Carrington spoke of _ if things go wrong _ it usually translated to _ when things go wrong _. Morale was delicate, double speak necessary, but Deacon had been around long enough to ferret out meaning.

“You got it boss. Anything else?”

“Make sure our local allies remember us. We might have to take action sooner than later, and I want to have some foxholes to dive into.”

Only one local ally really had the resources to provide a safe haven if shit hit the fan.

Hancock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of next chapter we're caught up with More Ghosts than People, so give the second chapter of it a read if you haven't for greater context for the following bit since I'd feel weird about copy pasting it in here. :)


	18. Neon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier searches for understanding, and runs from it.

The Courier weaved her way back through the city. At this point in her life, she was beginning to believe in fate. The significance in coincidence and parallels. It could have been age. Could have been the immense amounts of radiation she’d suffered in the last several years frying her brain.

Nevertheless, when she saw the first working neon sign she’d seen since Vegas, she took notice.

_ Goodneighbor. _

Goodneighbor was a little slice of New Vegas in Boston, though it traded the desert heat for a spring drizzle. Neon lights were reflected in the rain soaked cobblestone, and the people wandering the streets were under the influence of _ something _. It was a slice of Freeside, specifically - though the gangs here wore fedoras instead of pompadours. Thinking of Freeside made her sick. It had been hellhole and hope all at once, and thanks to her hope had been driven out. Still, the similarities were enough to strengthen her confidence. This was the place to begin.

Unlike Freeside, however, Goodneighbor had a mayor - or so the besuited ghouls patrolling the street informed her. Tradition for newcomers. The mayor liked being the welcome wagon, and he just so happened to be in town. It was as good a bet as any for getting the lay of the land - and maybe some work.

The State House was smoky, filled with that faint chemical sharpness that came with jet canisters. It was lined with couches and pillows, soft rugs and rich fabrics. A chem den. It sparked dim memories in her mind, glimmers of light in the fog of war her past had become to her. The Courier didn’t want to dwell on what they implied - after The Divide, any light shone on what had made her into the woman they buried in Goodneighbor was unwelcome.

Security pointed her up the spiral staircase. It creaked with every step. The banister was polished by a century’s worth of hands. On the next level, the scent of smoke and chem fumes intensified and with it sensation threatened to break the surface of her memory.

Thankfully her mind was drawn from the faded past by what awaited her at the top of the stairs. Double doors, flung wide, and at the immediate point of her focus was a ghoul in red. Dressed out of time, tricorne and overcoat. He lounged on a similarly red couch. The coffee table in front of it was strewn with bottles, chems, empty cigarette packs and food boxes. A hedonist’s haven. 

The wicked looking bodyguard behind the ghoul confirmed her suspicions. This was the mayor.

The Courier crossed the threshold, staring at the man. He did not sit up, merely turned his head to gauge her.

“You’re new.” he rasped out, breaking into a smile that was altogether too charismatic for anyone to have a right to have. The woman behind him tightened her grip on her weapon, subtly shifting her weight. The Courier had been around long enough to know the signs. _ Step carefully, stranger. _

“I am.” she watched as the ghoul scanned the length of her, interest settling in on the red beret on her head.

“You with the Brotherhood?” Still, the mayor did not sit up. His voice was syrupy smooth, drawn out. Riding the high. Nothing could shake him.

“No. I’m familiar with them, but I didn’t know they were this far east.” It was strange, speaking like this. Across the room from a lounging man with all the power in this particular situation flying high as a kite.

“Good.” The ghoul stretched his legs, sagging into the couch with a comfortable hum. “I’m Hancock, mayor of the best scrap of Boston you’ll ever find. First rule of Goodneighbor - freaks welcome. You have a problem with that, I’ll have a problem with you.”

“I’m used to freaks.” she replied, drawing forth a throaty laugh from Hancock. “I’m looking for work.”

“Work, eh?” Hancock nudged his tricorne upward. “Best to look in on the Third Rail. Out the door, take a left, down the stairs. The Hotel might have something for you, too. Place to pass out at night if you need one, at least.” He was still studying her. She wondered what he saw with those drug addled eyes, what hallucination caught his attention. “Something tells me you’re here for more than work.”

Or, perhaps, the chems had made him a kind of lucid that bordered on the insane.

“Looking for purpose, too.” The Courier gave a noncommittal shrug. “Aren’t we all?”

“Aren’t we all.” Hancock repeated in a low purr. “Well, stranger, if you stop back in once I’ve ridden this Daytripper down I’ll be happy to help. Tell Charlie I sent you when you stop in at the Third Rail, he’ll take care of you.” The ghoul seemed about ready to melt into the couch, eyes closed. “We’re pretty laid back here. I find out what’s going on one way or the other, so don’t fuck around.” One eye opened to peek at her. He seemed to have trouble keeping his eyes off of her.

“I’ll do that.” The Courier gave him a halfhearted salute, earning another laugh from Hancock. She turned on her heel and departed.

Chem dens made her nauseous.

\--

The first day in Goodneighbor she rented a room at the hotel and over the next several hours drank a half bottle of whiskey on the house at the Third Rail. The first drink that hadn't been home-brewed in years. It lit a warmth in her, restored feeling. Let her grasp tentative remembrances without pain - shot glasses with Cass at the Lucky 38, Boone watching from the shadows, ready to steady her when she stood. Drinking out of the bottle after Bitter Springs, his fingers brushing hers as they passed it back and forth. It was a blessing she hadn’t been granted in an age. She felt herself.

The second day she spent hunched over the sink in the bathroom downstairs, vomiting up what felt like everything she’d ever drank and feeling every bit of hatred and pain the memories brought with them.

_ No rest for the wicked. _

After the last bout of nausea, she rested her cheek on the cold porcelain and waited for her vision to focus. Her throat burned. Her grasp on the sink was all that kept her upright. Slowly, the world steadied and her consciousness grasped a weak thread of clarity.

A glimpse of orange caught her eye on the way out. There was a holotape in the other sink.

The Courier took it.

That evening was the first she spent sober in her hotel room. It was dingy, dark, and smelled of damp. There was a chill in the air that came with the humidity, and her sheets were stained and thin. A little light streamed in between the boards covering the window, but not enough to make the place feel alive. She wondered if that was why half the citizenry were under the influence - you had to be, to sleep anywhere near comfortably in this place.

She listened to the holotape while eating a cold can of Pork n’ Beans. 

_ “Wake up, Commonwealth. Synths are not your enemy. They are victims in this war, as well. True, they were created by the Institute. But they were created as slaves. Thinking, feeling, and dreaming beings utterly oppressed by their tyrannical masters. So join with us in fighting the real enemy: The Institute. Join the Railroad. When you're ready for that next step, don't worry, we'll find you.” _

The voice was a woman’s, warm and passionate. The Courier couldn’t make much of a few terms - _ Institute, Railroad _ \- but she’d heard rumors of the synths only a little ways west. Robots masquerading as humans. Artificial humans. Meant to infiltrate, to replace, to kill.

Yet the holotape argued otherwise. Created as slaves.

_ Slaves. _

Fortification Hill was a spectre she could not drive out of her mind. The road of a hundred crosses. Crippled women hauling supplies, defenseless against the groping hands of the Legion. Carla had been crucified rather than become one, and Boone met his doom.

A deeper memory glimmered. _ Metal pressing into her neck. The scent of chems. A hand, unwanted, tracing up her thigh. _ Terror filled her. The horror turned the memory into the Sierra Madre. Vera Keyes’ hologram weeping in the halls. Radio static. The blinking red light on her collar.

_ Slaves. Slaves. _

The Courier jolted awake. The light shining through the window had turned blue. Moonlight.

She’d fallen asleep sitting up, tin can still cradled between her legs. Her body had not had a safe place to rest in years, and now it seemed intent on catching up on lost time.

The holotape’s message still bounced around her head. She’d have to pay Hancock that visit for answers.

For now, though, she needed another drink to burn away what was threatening to surface after a bullet to the head.

\--

She’d sprung for cigarettes, another burn to add to that of the whiskey. Magnolia sang - it was different than the guitar accompanied ballads she knew from the Mojave, but it carried the same melancholic energy. The Courier lost track of the hours. It was hard to focus on time in Goodneighbor - at all hours there was someone wandering around, some party going on. 

They called New Vegas the city that never slept, once. She supposed it’d have to share the title at last.

At some point the stool next to her became occupied. People had avoided it when she was present. The Courier didn’t know if it was her rifle or a general sense of mistrust that kept strangers away, but she liked it. 

Until the man came along. The ghost.

In her drunken haze she thought it was _ him _, at first. Bald under his fedora, eyes shielded by sunglasses. Sadness etched in every line of his face, if one knew how to see it.

But it wasn’t him. The man’s stubble was tinged with ginger and grey, and the mouth was all wrong.  
  
The Courier told him he was a doppelganger. He shrugged it off. Didn’t try to flirt, didn’t try to pry. Shared a companionable silence, then bought her a drink. It was as if he was telling her to be at peace. That here, at this bar, she was free of judgement.

The next few minutes felt like she’d been allowed to argue with God. To bleed out every thought that had plagued her, every grim memory, every regret. She confessed. Confessed to pride, choosing the fate of the Mojave when she’d no right to. To lust, pining after a man who was married to the dead to the detriment of all that surrounded her. To greed, walking through hell and sacrificing much in search of selfish answers. To wrath, infuriated at her expulsion from the NCR. To sloth. Spending years consumed and isolated. The man heard it, bore witness to it, a vessel for her confession. 

In her drunken haze, she spat out bitterness and venom and felt it leave her body. Cleansed herself of it.

But the man wasn’t free of sin either. That she could see, when the poison left her. The Courier always had a way of seeing people, even if she couldn’t befriend them. She rounded on the man, accused him. Free of her bile, she focused on removing it from others.

The man conceded. Removed the glasses. The sight of his eyes unveiled cemented the separation for her. His were grey. Not green. Not that sighting of color she’d spent so long searching for another glimpse of.

But bore a haunted gaze all the same.

The Courier gave him all the advice she could and made for her departure. The edges of her vision were darkening. This spiritual experience was about to come to an end.

When he asked her for her name, she gave him the title that followed her east.

Courier Six had come to the Commonwealth.

\--

When she awoke midday, the night before felt like a dream. She wasn’t entirely certain that it wasn’t one. Still, she felt refreshed, relieved, like she had unburdened herself of a million unseen weights. 

It was time to pay Hancock that visit she promised.

He was waiting for her when she crested the stairs, leaning casually against the doorframe. Close to sober, this time - his black eyes had a piercing focus. 

“Courier Six.” The mayor drawled her name with a smirk.

So the night before hadn’t been a dream.

“The guy with the shades one of yours?” she ventured. She didn’t know if the mayor was going to try and play a game, to wield her confession against her. She didn’t know how much he knew.

Hancock pushed away from the doorframe and wandered back over to his couch. It had a permanent dip in it from his presence. “Nah. Just owed me a favor.” he said over his shoulder, gesturing at a wet bar and then the couch. “Make yourself a drink and have a seat.”

She poured herself another whiskey. _ Hair of the dog, and all that. _ The Courier lowered herself onto the couch opposite him and took a small sip. 

“So. You’ve been pretty quiet. A good tipper, at least.” Hancock leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows against his knees. “Figure you want the lay of the land here in Boston.”

“Lay of the Commonwealth in general would be great.” The Courier settled in. Hancock didn’t needle her about her story, and that she desperately appreciated. She took out her pack of cigarettes from her pocket, sliding one out and tucking it between her teeth before offering another to the mayor.

“You’re a darling.” Hancock purred appreciatively. He snatched a lighter from the coffee table. She noticed a holotape resting near it. The mayor leaned forward to light her cigarette, drawing close to her. There was an energy about him, a strange pull - even as a ghoul, the way he held the flame close to her lips, dragged his gaze from her eyes to her mouth… she was starting to realize that perhaps Goodneighbor adored their mayor in more ways than one. When he sat back down on the couch to light his own cigarette she found herself leaning forward in response, as if chasing him. It didn’t go unnoticed. He smirked, took a drag, and let the smoke drift lazily out between his ruined lips. “Any questions in particular, or you want the whole story?”

“Let’s start with the whole story. Saves all the questions for last.” She kicked her feet up on the table, which contrary to expectations seemed endearing to Hancock.

“Well. Big point of interest in Boston is Diamond City. Old baseball arena. Used to be a pretty decent place. Then they got their new mayor in and kicked all the ghouls and other undesirables out.” Hancock opened with a shot of disdain. “Can’t be too mad about it, because they’re the reason Goodneighbor as you see her exists. A bunch of us freaks and outcasts set up shop here once we drove the big crime out. _ By the people, for the people. _ ”  
  
“What’s Diamond City got to offer?” The Courier wanted to follow the trail of resentment that had settled in over his features.

“Biggest settlement in Boston. So. A lot of shit to trade, a lot of people to talk to. Most paths end up going through there one way or another. Just remember - they’ve gotten paranoid in there. Seeing synths around every corner, and splitting off from each other ‘cause of it. Which is exactly what the Institute wants. Only way we’re getting through this is by sticking together.” Hancock talked with his hands, causing the smoke from his cigarette to swirl in fascinating patterns. 

The Courier wondered if she was getting a contact high just from sitting there. She took another sip of whiskey. “I heard some talk of synths from out west. Caravanner tales. Usually exaggerated. But I’ve never heard them talk about the Institute.”

“That’s because they’re the fucking bogeyman, sweetheart.” Hancock exhaled forcefully, expelling a cloud of smoke from his lungs. “Nobody really knew about them until, oh… sixty? Seventy years ago? Synth infiltrator lost it in the middle of Diamond City. Seemed like a normal citizen, and then…” Hancock snapped his fingers. “Shot a bunch of people. Took a lot of people to bring him down, and when they looked closer at him they found parts mixed in with the flesh. More synths started cropping up after that, if Daisy’s told me the truth.” He mirrored her, put his feet up on the coffee table and gave her calf a nudge with one of his boots. “They replace people. To do what, we don’t know. Sometimes they kill. Sometimes they steal. Spy the most, probably. But there’s more people that just go missing that don’t go replaced. Usually people who mess around with technology or seem to know too much. People think just saying the name of the Institute’s enough to get you on their radar.”

“So the Institute makes synths to… spy on people? And they’re after, what, tech? Sounds like a worse version of the Brotherhood.” The Courier peered at Hancock through the smoke.

Hancock cackled. “They don’t wave their dicks about like the Brotherhood does. You see that blimp on your way in? Fuckers flew in with loudspeakers blaring - ‘We’re the Brotherhood! We mean no harm! Don’t mind us crashing vertibirds into anything that moves!’” He rolled his eyes. “But… yeah, sort of. It’s a guess. No one really knows their motivations, but University Point got wiped out after one of the kids there found something related to an energy experiment. Pre-war research. She tried to get a caravaneer to find a buyer for it, and I guess word got back to the Institute. Whole town - bigger than Goodneighbor - wiped off the map. Crawling with Gen 1s now. Uh, those are the synths that look like proper robots. Eerie fuckers.”

The Courier’s nose twitched. _ Energy research. _ The Mojave fought and bled over the Dam, the Brotherhood in the West had exhausted itself trying to save Helios One. With electricity came power. “So why’s the Brotherhood here? Are they trying to stop the Institute?”

“Fuck if I know.” The ghoul raised his hands. “They’re bad news, is all I know. Have a grudge against people like me. Don’t seem to care that there’s a difference between ferals and us civilized folk.” The darkness in his gaze matched the color of his eyes. “You said you were familiar with them, earlier.”

“There was a chapter of them, far out west. A friend of mine was part of them.” Sometimes she could still hear Veronica’s laugh, whenever she came across an angry old-world mail exchange on a rusting terminal. She never ended up telling her about Christine. One of many regrets. “They didn’t like her much. But they were… well. Almost dead. Whole organization stuck in a bunker. Nothing like… blimp numbers. Not even vertibird numbers.”

“Huh.” Hancock considered her for a moment. “Well, you ever figure out what the fuck they’re up to, you let me know. I want to keep my people out of their line of fire.” He flicked his cigarette over an ashtray. “That’s really the current lay of the land, anyways. Not a great outlook, getting tag teamed by the Brotherhood and the Institute.”

“What about the Railroad?” The Courier asked. She saw him stiffen. Watched his gaze dart to the holotape on the coffee table.

The mayor shrugged, affecting an aloof posture. “Don’t know much about them. Bunch of those fucking holotapes showed up scattered about one day. They’re secretive as the Institute. Been around about as long, if the rumors are true. Funny, since they hate the bastards. People say they rescue synths, but I don’t know how they can. I don’t think they’re a big player. If they were, well - maybe things would be in better shape around here. You won’t find much sympathy for synths in the ‘Wealth, though.” 

Hancock wasn’t telling her something, but seeing as how he was polite enough not to try and unearth her past she’d keep from prying. She had at least one account of the Commonwealth’s current affairs, if a biased one. She’d keep collecting them and see where the truth lay.

“Hm. Well - thanks for the info.” The Courier moved to stand, but paused at the edge of the seat cushion. “What’s the catch?”

“Catch?” The ghoul mayor lofted an eyebrow.

“Knowledge isn’t cheap.” she replied.

Hancock chuckled, though the tail end of it turned into a cough. “Moment I saw you I said to myself, Hancock, you’re going to hear about that woman later. My uh, acquaintance you bumped into made that all the more obvious. That, and -” He pointed at her face, letting his finger trail lazily down to aim at the crescent of her collarbone. “- that bolo tie of yours. Got a poker chip from a casino _ real _ far away, according to Daisy. Pre-war ghoul, you know. So I know you weren’t just talking shit when you said you were from out west. Figured it’d be smart to help you get your bearings here. If you remember Goodneighbor when you’re on your way to burn down whatever you have in mind, all the better.”

“I don’t plan on burning down anything.” The Courier muttered. “Just… want to help, for now.”

"Sometimes you gotta burn things down to help, sweets.” Hancock was starting to settle into the couch again, curled into the curve of the cushions. “Good luck out there. You ever feel like a party, you’re welcome to come on back. Oh. Make sure you chat with Daisy on your way out about wherever you’re from. She doesn’t get to hear much of anything new these days. Well, not since Blue came along.”

“Blue?” she crushed her spent cigarette in the ash tray and swigged back the rest of her whiskey.

“She’s kind of a big deal. According to the news out of Diamond City, she’s a pre-war vaultie. Got frozen and just thawed out. Institute took her kid. She broke into my warehouse.” Hancock wore a lazy smile, fondly remembering the event. “Hell of a woman. You remind me of her. That’s a good thing.” He raised his drink to her. “Word of advice, don’t fuck around with her either.”

“What side’s she on?”

Hancock shrugged. “Don’t know. Hers, I figure.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine.” The Courier stood and bowed her head respectfully. “Thank you for your time.”

“You ever want more of it, come on back.” He called after her as she left for the stairs.

Maybe she’d check in with the Brotherhood. She knew how they worked. If they were anything close to how they were out west, her job might be a bit easier.

_ Father Elijah’s voice. Collar round her neck. A bunker full of gold. _

If they were anything close to how they were out west, perhaps she owed it to the Commonwealth to remove them from the equation.

As for the woman known as Blue - The Courier knew all too well that great figures fell into one of two categories. Heroic and dead too young, or corrupt and very much alive. She hoped Blue fell into the former category. 

To her eternal regret, the Courier didn’t.


	19. Relay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charmer crosses over.

Trying to keep the Railroad alive was like juggling grenades. People and favors, locations and knowledge, all waiting to blow up in his face if even one piece was mishandled.

Meeting Courier Six added another explosive to the mix.

Deacon’s meeting with Hancock went about as well as he could expect. The ghoul was enraptured with his account of the Courier’s story, but it took some convincing to get the mayor to keep him informed of the woman’s activities.

“You want me to keep tabs on her for you, huh.” Hancock spoke through a haze of smoke. He’d busted out a cigar - judging by the spread of uppers and downers on the coffee table, Goodneighbor’s mayor was just getting started. Deacon was glad he caught him in a rare window of sobriety. “You said she was dangerous. Make it worth my while.”

Deacon tucked his hands into his pockets. Behind the sunglasses his gaze was ice, but externally he affected a casual posture. “You mentioned wanting to know what was up with Blue.” He hated using the name. Hated using their history like this - but this was a small offering for a potential payoff.

The Railroad needed all the help it could get. Needed to know if the Courier was going to be a land mine.

His offering caught Hancock’s attention. There was a glimmer in those black eyes, so easily able to shift from endearing to terrifying. “Info for info. Yeah, I’ll take it.”

Deacon knew that Charmer had managed to bust into one of Hancock’s warehouses and earned the man’s eternal interest for it, but the ghoul’s attention when it came to her never ceased to make him uncomfortable. He told himself he was just being protective, knew Hancock’s tastes and lifestyle - even now his nostrils stung with stale Jet fumes - and knew that involvement in any of it would drag Charmer down the path to sweet self destruction. Hancock’s own appearance was proof.

Jealousy was only a small part of the equation.

Still, this was a small price to pay for Hancock’s eyes. The ghoul shared Deacon’s hobby of keeping his fingers on Boston’s pulse - it was the only reason he’d survived and thrived for so long.

“She thought we were friends.” Deacon began. Hancock’s expression darkened immediately. The mayor’s moods were vibrant. He and Charmer had that in common. “Not… the best thing in our line of work. I reminded her of that. She didn’t take it well.” 

Hancock scowled, aiming a stream of smoke directly for Deacon’s face. He blinked. It stung his eyes. The ghoul took another few puffs of his cigar, eyeing the spy critically. “You people need to remember that out here, all you have to lose is each other.” 

Deacon had to bite his tongue to keep from telling the mayor that was the exact reason he’d put up boundaries in the first place. 

“World ain’t worth saving if you’ve got no one who cares in it.” Hancock continued. “So, what - plan on doing the same to the Courier? Chewing her up and spitting her out?”

“No.” Deacon didn’t know if he was lying or telling the truth. Maybe both, depending on where the chips fell. “Just want to make sure we don’t have a problem on our hands. Commonwealth can’t take another hit and stay together.”

“Hmph.” Hancock didn’t seem pleased, but he brokered no argument. “Fine. You know who to bother if I’m not around or too high to speak.” He flapped a scarred hand at him. “Go on before I do something I’ll regret.”  
  
Deacon didn’t need to be told twice.

\--

After the first week and a half, he found himself starting to acclimate. Adaptability was his lifeblood. It didn’t stop the pain in his chest whenever something reminded him of her (he told himself it was just his collarbone healing poorly, tried to lie to himself until he believed it) but at the very least his awareness had returned in full.

The timing couldn’t have been better. The Brotherhood of Steel was spreading across the landscape like a plague. They’d caught a runner trying to get a synth out of the Commonwealth, and they had their first synth loss of the year. Their pathways were constantly rerouted or lost. Ticon was in the thick of it, too exposed to be able to do much anymore with the vertibirds flying overhead.

Desdemona was smoking more. Her hair was starting to tinge more silver than red. Years of stress were starting to take their toll.

“We can’t fight on two fronts.” Deacon overheard her sigh one morning, on one of his rare stops into HQ. Dez sounded _ old _, and it frightened him. It was a reminder of his own age, his own mortality. Not to mention a sign of how shaky the Railroad’s foundations were growing.

“We’ll have to factor in necessary losses.” Carrington’s voice was devoid of venom. Everyone was too drained to put up much of a fight. “We may have better luck if Charmer survives the signal interceptor, but-”

“She will.” Deacon interrupted. For what wasn’t the first time, he found himself having to set the tone for the organization. It fell to him to keep spirits high and morale up - it was times like these when his jokes and lies became treasured rather than despised. “If Tom can crack a courser chip, molecular breakdown should be easy.” 

“Thanks, Deacon.” Tom called from his station. Sometimes he wondered if the dish on the man’s hat gave him supernatural hearing.

Deacon smiled, hoping it was bright enough to light up the room. “How’s our secret weapon doing, anyway?” he asked nonchalantly. Intel had Charmer running all over the Commonwealth in search of parts no one had any use for - but the last time he checked in Mercer was free of any science fiction eyesores. 

“I don’t know if I appreciate your attempts to seem ignorant or hate them.” Desdemona massaged the back of her neck with her free hand. She gestured to Tom with the one holding her cigarette. “She’s got the supplies at Mercer. Tom’s double-checking-”

“Quadruple checking!” Tom yelled.

“... quadruple checking his calculations, then we’re heading out to get things rolling.” 

Charmer was faster than he’d thought. More subtle, too, given that by his understanding she wasn’t too far into gathering materials.  
  
He supposed she didn’t have him to distract her now.

“Mind if I tag along?” Deacon wanted to be there, painful though it might be. It was a sight he didn’t want to miss - and although he’d taught her everything he could, if there was some last minute advice that could help her he wanted to be there to offer it.

More than anything, he wanted to be there to wish her luck. Charmer was about to get her answers in the Institute. She’d find her son - or what became of him. This was all she’d been hoping for since she stumbled out of the vault, all she had from before the world ended. It might be the most important moment of her life.

He didn’t know enough to be there for her when she came out of the vault. He wanted to be there for her now - even if his presence was unwelcome.

“You say that like any of us could stop you.” Dez replied, jolting him from his thoughts. “She’s aware that she’ll be acting undercover, so I don’t think she’ll mind a few pointers.”

One battle he wouldn’t have to fight, at least. “Where we meeting her afterward?” There was no way they could let her wander right back into HQ or Mercer. In case she was followed (or - and he didn’t want to think about it - she was replaced) they couldn’t afford the security breach. 

“Diamond City. You’re the contact. You know her best, so it makes sense for you to be the one to clear her.” Dez took a drag from her cigarette and cast him a knowing look.

_ You know her best. _ Deacon wondered if that was true - if he was the only person in the entire Commonwealth to really know the woman from the vault. The only one who understood that there was a woman beneath the mantle, that the Railroad’s secret weapon had her own hopes and dreams. He’d taken that gift and driven a void into it, all for the sake of security.

His conversation with the Courier echoed in his mind. If they ever defeated the Institute, would things stay that way? Would they chew her up and spit her out, as Hancock had insinuated?

Desdemona and Carrington were tiptoeing around the fact that this might well be a suicide mission, that they were sending their best hope right into the mouth of hell. Dez at least seemed torn about it, but to Carrington she was just another gear in the machine. An efficient one, but ever able to be replaced.

Deacon always had a critical mind - if he couldn’t see the Railroad’s flaws he couldn’t fix them before it was too late - but as time wore on he soured on the very systems he’d put in place. The conversation with Hancock bothered him more than he thought it would.

_ World ain’t worth saving if you’ve got no one who cares in it. _

For so long, he thought he was on his own. Thought he could be the spirit of the Railroad, unattached, unaffected. The past months proved that blatantly untrue, but also served as a reminder of how necessary it was to strive for it. Whatever had bloomed in him again didn't deserve to see the light of day. He didn't deserve its color.

“We’re good.” Tinker Tom broke in, ejecting a holotape from his terminal. 

Dez glanced down at her watch. “Stagger departures by thirty minutes. Take different routes to Mercer. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Make sure the crows don’t see you out there, Tom.” Deacon teased, earning a scowl from Dez.

“Don’t even _ remind _ me, man. I’m going to need a full scrub down when we’re done with this.” Tom shuddered.

Desdemona turned to Carrington. “If we’re not back in three days assume the worst.”  
  
Carrington harrumphed in reply and returned to his research table. Tom and Desdemona stared at Deacon expectantly.

“Ladies first, huh? Alright. If you hear me screaming in the distance, probably a good idea to head back.” He didn’t want to be first. Didn’t want to be left alone with Charmer for even a half hour. He wasn’t sure if he could trust himself for that long.

But he’d have to try.

\--

Mercer was closed off to outside traffic. Deacon had to remove his hat before the gate guard recognized him. Wasteland camo was surprisingly effective.

The security was small comfort. Mercer’s alley was open to the air - a necessity for building the signal interceptor, but it left them perilously exposed from above. One vertibird at the wrong time and it’d all be over. Time was of the essence.

A couple residents lurked outside an apartment entrance. They murmured in annoyed tones, and he soon realized why.

Part of the dirt that was utilized for gardens had been sectioned off and trampled down, a sizeable metal platform built onto it. Scrap metal was neatly stacked beside it, along with a few wooden crates of various technological parts. Sitting on the concrete steps nearby was Charmer - her hair pushed back with a cloth bandana and a Nuka-Cola in hand, her forehead beaded with sweat. Deacon was the first to catch sight of her, and slowed his pace until she took notice of him.

At first, she perked up. A glimmer of excitement crossed her features - but it was quickly overtaken by disappointment. Still, her body language remained open, back straight, arms casual. Better than expected.

“Where’s Dez?” Charmer asked immediately, keeping her tone light.

Still not as good as things could be.

“We’re staggered out. Brotherhood’s got everyone on edge.” Deacon shrugged. “She’s probably pulling up the rear, so give it an hour.”

“Huh.” Charmer took a sip of the Nuka-Cola. Her leg was bouncing anxiously - he didn’t think the caffeine was doing her nerves any favors.

“Got an early start, I see.” Deacon surveyed the platform. It looked startlingly advanced for something cobbled together out of scrap parts. “Might be able to get going by nightfall.” He dared to look back over to her. She didn’t look angry, or sad. Just… cautious. “You excited?”

A quick nod. “I feel like I’m going to come apart at the seams. I just… I can’t believe this is happening. For the longest time, it’s been loss after loss, but now?” Charmer dipped her head in the direction of the platform. “It’s real.”

“Lay off the cola or you’re gonna shake so bad they’ll think you’re a synth on the fritz.” Deacon grinned. It was hard not to. Seeing her so close to her goal - being a part of what had helped her get there - it made him feel like there was at least a part of him that wasn’t a complete bastard.

The corners of her mouth twitched, threatening a smile. She ducked her head, staring down at her bottle. “What are you doing here?” It was carefully asked, affected aloofness. As if she didn’t care about the answer.

“They’re going to throw me in after you if the signal interceptor holds up long enough. You can walk me in and offer me as a prisoner. It’ll give you a real sterling cover story. Don’t worry, it was my idea.” He wanted to get a proper smile out of her before she entered the lion’s den. A moment of calm before the storm.

“If they had to deal with you in a cell, I think it’d be the opposite of a favor. Bad idea.” Charmer deadpanned. For a brief moment, things were as they used to be - a lifeline tossed out that they both immediately clung to. It was why their partnership was so dangerous. The spell was broken, as if she remembered why the past two weeks happened. She looked away from him quickly, fixed her gaze on the alley gate and took another drink from the bottle. 

“Maybe. I’ve been running out of good ideas, lately.” He shrugged, sitting down on the concrete steps a few feet away from her, leaving plenty of room. “I just thought I’d see you off. Wish you luck. See someone teleport for real. You know.” 

That got her to smile at last. “... thanks, Dee.” she mumbled, tucking a strand of greying hair behind her ear. A streak of silver had appeared at her temple since the last time he saw her. He had the strange urge to reach out and touch it.

He couldn’t trust himself.

Clearing his throat, he looked down at her pack. “Got another cola in there?”

Her pack was lying by her feet, the flap open. Deacon could see a worn teddy bear within and the edge of a picture frame. That too-familiar tightness settled in around his throat and stomach. Charmer believed in herself as much as he did. She was going to get her boy back. Any other possibility was madness, something she didn’t deserve. Not after everything she’d gone through.

Charmer simply handed him her half-empty bottle. “You know.” she breathed, fixing her eyes on him. “It hasn’t even been a year. Seven, eight months ago - all of this was shiny and new.” Sweeping her arm over their surroundings, she heaved a sigh. “Part of me thinks this is all a bad dream. That when I step through that thing-” A nudge of her chin to the signal interceptor base. “-I’m going to wake up in a hospital bed somewhere and find that I slipped in the shower and hit my head too hard.”

Deacon tipped the bottle back, letting the carbonated drink wash down his throat. “If it is - name your next kid after me, alright? I’m a pretty good figment of the imagination.” He couldn’t engage with her. Not properly. His brain was already dwelling on the fact that her lips had touched the bottle he’d just drank from, his subconscious stupidly overflowing with the associated fantasies. 

Charmer sat in silence. Whatever reply she intended never came, for Tinker Tom scurried in through the front gate.

“Hey, DC.” Tom had manners enough to greet them, though by the twitching of his fingers that was all the polite small talk they were going to get. “You got the base set up, good. How’s the power looking?”

“Rigged up a makeshift fusion generator with those schematics you gave me.” Charmer replied, standing upright. She was all business now, all hard focus. “Got a few other backup generators in the garage.” She jerked her thumb toward a small alcove at the bottom of one of the apartments - enough wires led out of it make a veritable electric spider web.

Tom rubbed his hands together. “Hell yeah. Alright, alright - the boys still around?”

“Should be in the rec room. I’ll grab them for you.” Charmer strode off before either of the men could offer any argument.

Deacon watched her depart. “... guess we’re not waiting for Dez, huh.”

Tom waved his hand and started to pick through the gathered tech. “I’ll catch her up when she gets here. Oh, _ man! _ ” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know any of this brand still existed! And… are these chemical canisters? Is that pure _ lithium _?” 

Deacon sat on the steps and listened to Tinker Tom babble about Charmer’s various treasures before she returned with five agents in tow. Then he was put to work - holding pieces in place, grabbing tools, lifting the heavy parts. Desdemona showed up just as they finished constructing one of the signal interceptor’s arms. Tom had devised a pulley system to get the metal bar upright so they didn’t have to worry about setting up scaffolding.

The sun trailed across the sky. This late in the spring, the noon hour left them hot and sweating, sun beating down from overhead. The alleyway was a blessing, for the sunlight didn’t last long. Soon they were in the city’s shadow once more.

Faces peered out from the windows. Some agents, some rescued synths. Very rarely, children. This was far from their most subtle operation - but most had no idea what the device was for. They were in the home stretch now. The Brotherhood and Institute were closing in on both sides. The time for caution was quickly passing them by.

By the time the signal interceptor was finished the sky was the deep navy of twilight. They stood back and admired their handiwork, standing in a semicircle. Charmer’s excitement quickly turned to nervousness at the sight of their creation. It was impressive, complex - and made entirely of junk. Junk that was supposed to break her down to the molecular level and put her back together in the right order somewhere else.

Deacon leaned in a little closer to her. “Don’t worry. Tom’s inventions usually work. And if not - can uh… can I have your stuff? You’ve got the best holotape collection in the ‘Wealth, you know.”

Charmer looked torn between smiling and frowning. She split the difference and pressed her lips into a thin line. Well. Better than fright.

His exchange with Charmer caused Desdemona to break the momentary peace and take command. “Alright Tom, get in position. Charmer, be ready to step onto the platform. The rest of you - get to a safe distance.” Dez waved Deacon and the other agents back. The others were more than happy to clear the area, as when Tom flipped the power the machine started to hum in a distinctly unstable manner.

Deacon, however, only took a few steps back. He stood next to Desdemona, a few meters behind Charmer. In the growing darkness the platform base glowed with blue light, occasionally sparking. Charmer was outlined by the light, the rest of her body became shadow.

The humming was growing louder. Tom shouted over it, that the wave they were trying to catch was approaching. Charmer stepped onto the platform and turned to face them. It was doing something strange to the air, heating and cooling it, creating an artificial wind. It whipped at her hair.

Desdemona jogged forward and pressed the holotape Tom had given her into Charmer’s hands. Deacon couldn’t hear what the two women were saying, but he could see their faces, read some words on their lips. Dez held Charmer’s hands for a brief moment. He could see her mouth _ thank you _ before stepping away. With the holotope, with the signal interceptor - she was placing the Railroad’s hopes with Charmer. Letting her decide the fate of the Commonwealth, trusting her to do the right thing.

Deacon thought of the Courier. The woman who had fate placed in her hands, who did what she thought others expected of her. Did she look as Charmer did, before she made the decision that ruined her? Did she look so hopeful?

“Less than a minute!” Tom exclaimed over the noise. 

Bolts of electricity were flashing out from the top of the signal interceptor, connecting with the brick of the buildings around them. Charmer’s hair was starting to float from the static, the glow surrounding her increasing in brightness. She looked like the old descriptions of angels - blindingly bright, beautiful, terrifying. Her head tilted, turning away from Tom and Desdemona to look at Deacon. Her eyes were questioning. He couldn’t let her share the Courier’s fate.

As if pulled, Deacon ran as close to the platform as he dared. Tom shouted something, but he paid it no heed.

“Charms!” he yelled as loud as he could, hoping to god she could hear him. “Look - do what _ you _ think is right. Fuck what I think, fuck what Dez thinks! Whatever you do, make sure it’s for _ you _.”

Charmer furrowed her brows in confusion. “I don’t-”

“This is too important to let other people decide for you. You’ve got a choice. Make sure it’s the right one.”  
  
The metal of the signal interceptor was starting to groan and whine. He felt his skin break into goosebumps. Deacon stumbled back to safety. Dez and Tom had their arms raised, shielding their eyes from the light. He was thankful for his shades, thankful he could bear witness.

_ “Dee-” _Charmer mouthed. She was silenced when the air split in two.

The noise was deafening. If there were any glass windows that survived the war, they shattered. It was like a sonic boom. He felt the sound wave like a blow to the chest, knocking him off his feet. Deacon’s ears rang as if someone had fired a shotgun next to him.

From the ground he could see Desdemona and Tom sheltering behind the control console. Flames were shooting out from the garage - the generators had burned out. Deacon rolled over and pushed himself up.

The signal interceptor had disintegrated. There was no sign of Charmer. 

Dez and Tom rose from their cover. Desdemona inhaled sharply when she saw the smoking ruin that was left of the signal interceptor. Tom was, for once, stupefied.“That… that was supposed to happen.” he reassured when he rediscovered his voice. “The power demands were intense, but once she got going - there’s no stopping it, even if the supply stops. It worked. I ran the calculations.” 

Deacon didn’t know if Tom was trying to convince Desdemona or himself. The air suddenly felt very cold.

Desdemona smoothed out her clothes and brushed the hair out of her face. “Then it’s all up to her.” Her voice shook, but she steadied it for her next sentence. “Deacon, be ready to meet her at Diamond City. Standard procedures apply.” Her jaw tensed. She took out her pack of cigarettes and hastily lit one. Her hands quivered. “We keep working. Assume the worst. Wish for the best.”

For once, Deacon was speechless. He could only nod.

_ Standard procedures apply. _

She had two weeks. After that she was missing in action. He refused to let the possibility cross his mind.

After everything she’d done - after all the effort spent to get here, she wasn’t allowed to go out like this. Deacon shied away from optimism, knew that it so often gifted disappointment.

He’d make an exception, just this once.


	20. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier makes contact.

Diamond City was quite unlike anything she’d seen in the Mojave. 

New Vegas prided itself on sinfulness, on pleasure, on a constant bustle of activity at all hours. Your safety was in your own hands. Your choices - and a little bit of luck - dictated how well your visit would go.

The ‘great green jewel’, however, felt like a Bighorn pen. People rounded up and allowed to wander in their own square of safety, ready to go feral on anyone upsetting the balance.

A guard interrogated her when the city’s great gate opened. The kid was barely out of his teens and eyed her rifle with a healthy dose of nervousness. The Courier expected she’d have to hand over a sack of caps to gain entry - but it turned out that stating her business was enough.

Mercenary, scavver, wanderer. The job description had all bled together. For a Courier, the only things she delivered in recent years were bullets to the skull.

When she ascended the steps and beheld Diamond City in its entirety, the momentary flash of awe was quickly replaced by the realization that the city’s protection was also its curse. The only exits seemed to be the elevator in the guard post and the chain link fence she’d just entered from. 

As she meandered her way down into the market square, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. Not the occasional curious glances that people threw her way, the stares that always came with being a newcomer. A distinct sensation that she was being tracked. Hunted.

After six years of traveling through complete wilderness - and a couple of years spent in the unforgiving Mojave - paranoia was a constant companion.

It was an emotion shared by the populace, by her reckoning. As she sat at what proved to be a noodle bar (a friendly customer told her to just say ‘yes’ to the protectron and hand a few caps over) she surveyed the town’s citizens. Overheard murmurings about the Brotherhood of Steel and their zeppelin in the sky. Panicked whisperings about another settlement dropping off the map. Theories on who had been replaced in the town.

Hancock was right. The fear in Diamond City was like a physical miasma.

At least the noodles were good.

With her belly full, she explored. The place was entirely self contained - behind the scrap shacks were fields of produce. After seeing the wonders of Kansas, they seemed sad in comparison. A man was painstakingly painting the city’s back wall (“The Wall”, she came to learn) green. They had a child in charge of the water purifier.

Maybe that explained some of the crazy.

It was in her nature to seek out the high places. Positions to take point in, granting clean sight lines and firing solutions. A sniper’s reasoning, practical reasoning. After the Lucky 38, no view could compare.

The high places in Diamond City were called the Upper Stands. No one stopped her from taking the elevator up, though on the higher level the guards’ eyes were less subtle. The sign pointing to the mayor’s office explained why.

It always gave her a sense of deja vu when she walked into these places of power, however small they may have been. While their appearance may have differed, the feeling was always the same.  _ Step carefully, Courier. _

Unlike Hancock, Diamond City’s mayor didn’t take it upon himself to greet new arrivals. Instead he had a pretty blonde secretary to await walk-ins. A pen was in her hand and she scribbled a list down on a piece of paper. She glanced up once, expecting to be disinterested - but the sight of the Courier made her stiffen. Her eyes fell to the old rifle.

The Courier wondered if she should have stashed it away somewhere. Or she could work the fear her weapon instilled to her advantage.

“Howdy.” The Courier greeted. “Looking for work.”

The secretary -  _ Geneva, her name plate said _ \- relaxed. “Bounty board’s over there. More in the Dugout Inn and by the swatter stall.” 

“That it?” Bounties went quickly, never made much of an impression. A good way to earn caps, but inefficient for reputation.

Geneva sighed and set her pen down. “Unless you’re thinking of applying to join the security forces, that’s all that’s officially available for the moment.”

The Courier caught her meaning. “What about unofficially?” 

“Trouble’s brewing at the Taphouse, I think.” Geneva looked around conspiratorially before she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Paul Pembroke’s wife has been spending more time there than she does at home. From what I hear, Paul’s not going to stand for it much longer.”

Marital troubles. Unideal. Still - this was her penance. To help wherever she could, no matter the scale. “I’ll check it out.”

Geneva leaned back in her chair, posture prim and proper once more. “The Taphouse is just down the walkway.” she gestured. “Don’t bother the clientele.”

The Courier snorted. She tore the papers from the bounty board on her way out.

\--

It seemed it was in her nature to make a name for herself.   
  
The Taphouse job had ended with Cooke fleeing the Commonwealth, Paul Pembroke swimming in chems and the new owner of the bar, and a wealthy man’s son bleeding on the concrete with his caps in her pocket.

It made one hell of an impression. Between that and the bounties she’d taken care of, the people of Diamond City began to bear some respect for her - tempered by a healthy fear. No one knew how Nelson Latimer died, and the Courier had managed to dodge his father’s suspicions, but the knowledge of her involvement was firmly rooted in the populace’s minds.

The Courier bought Home Plate with Nelson Latimer’s caps. It soothed the populace a little to see her trying to make an honest go of making herself at home. It was cheaper than renting a room every night, and gave her a sanctuary. 

The chems went to Hancock. The ghoul was in another one of his hazes when she stopped in - all the better. Gratitude and the happiness of others was something she had difficulty managing. She figured she owed him - and she liked to be rid of chems sooner rather than later. Their allure was strong, now more than ever. It’d be too easy to slip into sweet oblivion. Some part of her had dabbled, once, phantoms of memory lingered on. They were enough to stay her hand.

Instead she took to exploring Boston, allowing herself to become familiar with a place once again, a balm for her soul. She had resolved to die here - she would know it as intimately as she could before her time came.

The Courier made a point of knowing the rooftops, scrap walkways and rubble that created a pathway above Boston’s streets. The city was a sniper’s paradise, makeshift postings granting her clear sight lines down the streets. By whose hand they were made remained a mystery. 

She noticed the markings, too. White chalk and pictograms. Sometimes arrows, sometimes crosses, always surrounded by radiating lines. The Courier knew not their purpose, but they reminded her of the tribal scrawlings that could be seen in Red Rock Canyon. The Mojave echoed in every fiber of her being. Rippled remembrances. Fate would never let her forget.

The days passed by. Her caps were spent on ammo and shots of whiskey at the Dugout Inn. She kept to herself, not by her own design but due to Diamond City’s ever present paranoia. Absently she wondered if this was to be her fate; a silent force enacting some justice, bringing some order back to the Commonwealth with none to mourn her.   
  
One evening while scouting through Cambridge, the holding pattern changed.

Gunfire was a frequent enough occurrence in Boston’s ruins, between the Gunners, raiders, and super mutants. Laser fire, however, was the mark of a very particular faction. The Courier hadn’t yet chanced to see the Brotherhood up close, but she’d seen their vertibirds raining hell from above. It was with this in mind that she climbed the fire escape of a nearby building and did her best to duck behind rubble and exterior vents.

As she drew close to the building’s edge her suspicions were confirmed. A paladin in full power armor stood vigilant, guarding two smaller figures garbed in jumpsuits and light armor. Feral ghouls were pouring out of an open grate. She peered at the group through her rifle’s scope. It seemed they had already lost one of their own. A corpse laid face-first on the pre-war barriers, surrounded by the bodies of ferals. 

One of the jumpsuited figures ran out of ammo and flung her pistol aside. A feral leapt onto the paladin but was quickly thrown off. They were close to being overrun.

_ Collar on her neck. Radio static.  _

She could leave. Let fate decide what was to become of them. The Brotherhood had only caused her strife. They were continuing the pattern, if Hancock’s word meant anything.

_ Veronica’s laughing face at the Lucky 38, another hand of poker won. _

_ Fuck it. _

The Courier pulled a grenade from her belt. She tossed it toward the sewer grate as hard as she could - the height of the building she was on granted her no time to cook it. Then she dropped to her knees, brought her rifle to her shoulder and her scope to her eye. She took the ferals into her sights.

As she pulled the trigger, her thoughts bore _his_ voice.

_ Three o’ clock. It’s heading to the friendly. Wind’s blowing east. _

The grenade took out several of the ferals and wounded many more. Her shots rang out, putting down the crippled creatures. She could see the shock on the paladin’s face, but he quickly adjusted to the situation, gesturing for his unarmored comrades to pull back into the building behind them.

Between the paladin’s laser fire and her sniper rifle, the tide was quelled. Cautiously the Courier stood. Her beret shone in the sunlight, the wind whipping her hair. The paladin raised his hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun, and saw the figure of his savior.

She lifted her hand slowly and waved.

He waved back.

\--

“This is no place for a civilian.”

The paladin’s greeting when the Courier made her way to their base of operations (a police station, it soon became clear) instantly put a scowl on her face.

“If I’m what you’re used to expecting from the Commonwealth’s civilians, I’m surprised your airship still flies.” she deadpanned, slinging her rifle back around her shoulders. She squinted up at the man, unintimidated despite his having a couple feet of height on her. Power armor made for a tricky opponent, but this man was without a helmet. His mistake, should he try anything.

The paladin stared back at her, thick brows shading his eyes. He pressed his lips together. She watched him study her rifle, then drag his attention to her beret.

“A soldier, then.” He stated, more inquiry than fact.

“Was, once.” The Courier replied.

A woman slipped out of the police station door. One of the figures the man was protecting. She stepped toward her discarded laser pistol - only a few feet from the Courier - and picked it up. “Paladin Danse, should I stop the distress signal?” She beheld the Courier with suspicion. “Before it draws anyone else in?” 

“Didn’t hear the signal.” The Courier canted her head in recognition of the woman. “Came for the gunfire.”

“Go ahead.” The paladin - Danse - instructed the woman, paying no heed to the Courier’s statement. 

The woman didn’t budge. She stared at the Courier’s beret now, too. “May I?” A gesture at the beret.

The Courier tensed. Goosebumps spread across her skin. She told Boone he’d be the death of her, once. Maybe that’d prove true. All because she had to get involved. Always because she had to get involved.

_ No good deed goes unpunished. _

“I’ve been wondering about that too, Haylen.” Danse admitted. “Hasn’t been a paramilitary force in the Commonwealth since the Minutemen, from what we’ve gathered.”

“I’m not from around here.” The Courier replied slowly. She had more ammo. More maneuverability. She tried not to make it too obvious when she glanced around for exit routes. Ever the cornered animal. The woman - Haylen - was still staring at her. The Courier took a gamble. “... go ahead.”

Haylen stepped to her side. She had to lift up onto her toes to get a good view of the patch on the beret - the Courier was taller than most women, and for once she was thankful for it.

“NCR Recon.” she read aloud. “... the last thing you never see.”

The look on Haylen’s face was disquieting. The woman exchanged a look with Paladin Danse that made him straighten to his full height.

“Come inside.” Danse phrased it like a request, but the Courier had been around long enough to know it was an order. 

She took one last look at her surroundings before following the man inside.

The police station was a mess, as most post-war buildings tended to be. The other member of the Brotherhood - a man - was hastily bandaging his arm. His face was cut up, and he wore an expression of utter disdain.

Haylen shut the door behind them, and Danse remained posted at it. Blocking the exit. 

Brotherhood hospitality hadn’t changed.

The Courier kept her stance relaxed. Pain she could handle. They couldn’t do any worse to her than had been done to her already. Here she was unattached. Had nothing to lose. She’d say nothing she didn’t wish to tell.

For now, at least, things remained civil.

“I’d like to hear the story behind that beret.” Danse began, with all the politeness of a McCarran secretary. Stiff. Trying too hard. But there was an earnestness there, a belief in what he was doing. It wasn’t necessarily reassuring. “If there’s other people giving the training you have, we’d like to know them.”

The man was doing his best not to lie. The Courier would smirk, were it not for her circumstances. “You know what NCR stands for?” she returned his question with one of her own.

Haylen snorted. Must have been a scribe, if she remembered her Brotherhood ranks correctly. “I have a suspicion.”

“New California Republic.” She let the statement hang. The wounded man didn’t seem to care - if he did, he masked it well with the hatred in his eyes. Haylen took visible satisfaction from the answer - proved correct - and wore an unsettling curiosity. Danse, however, frowned.

“That’s out west.” The paladin stated the obvious. “That kind of journey is impossible without vertibirds.”

“So I’ve been told.” she replied. “I don’t recommend it.”

Haylen was peering at the Courier’s Pip-Boy, now. Danse picked up on her interest.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It was a gift.” The Courier was going to make this difficult. Remaining polite as she could while giving as little information as possible. Having her kindness - and wasted ammo - rewarded with an interrogation was not something she would quickly forget. They hadn’t earned her full cooperation.

The paladin’s frown deepened. It wasn’t a frightening thing, which surprised her. Moreso an expression of disappointment. He wore his authority proudly, expected her to acknowledge it, to feel guilt. “You’re not from a vault, then?”

She shrugged. “If I was, I don’t remember it.” One bit of information she’d volunteer. She brushed the hair away from her temple, showcasing the scar. “The man who patched me up was from one. Old. Had no use for the Pip-Boy.”

Haylen was shifting her attention between the Courier and Danse quickly. Anxiously. From what she could remember of Veronica’s tales, a good scribe could never learn enough. Haylen lived up to the stereotype.

Danse’s jaw clenched, peering at the Courier as if she could make his mind up for him. His organization was a straightforward one. Delicate conversations weren’t their area of expertise.

“You’re from California, then?”

“No.” She could see a muscle in his throat jump. He was growing annoyed. Part of her wanted him to hit her. To give her an excuse. The years had made her more savage. Was this what birthed raiders?

“So how did you…” Danse gestured to her beret again with an armored hand.

“They expanded into the Mojave. New Vegas.” 

That quelled the paladin’s annoyance. Haylen’s eyes widened. A statement of significance.

Danse’s next words were spoken slowly, chosen as carefully as he could manage. “Were you familiar with the Brotherhood?”

There it was. The reasoning behind it all. The Courier would have to tread cautiously. Truth was dangerous. The truth she carried most of all.

“Yes. I aided them.” She’d given Hancock part of the story. She gave Danse another part. Her life always seemed to go that way - always picking what bits could be given light and masking others. It was an instinct that gave her most of her charisma. Only one man knew the entirety. Only one man carried a weight complicated enough to understand. “They were in rough shape. From what I gathered, the former elder of the chapter picked an ill advised fight with the NCR. Beyond mission parameters.” Her words were quick, reasoning spoken before they could take offense. “He was thrown out by the time I came along. They were recuperating.”

Danse and Haylen exchanged looks.    


“I’m thankful for your aid. Truly, I am.” The paladin’s dark eyes had an endearing quality to them. They reminded her of Rex. Honest eyes. Naive eyes. “But my superiors will want to hear of this. In detail. Contact with the Mojave chapter was lost before we reconnected with the rest of the western Brotherhood.”

The Courier swallowed. Did her best not to show her unease.

“Our current mission takes precedent, unfortunately. We’ll have to keep you here until it’s complete. Knight Rhys and Scribe Haylen will watch over you.”

“No.”  _ No fucking way. _ She wasn’t anyone’s prisoner. Not anymore. Never again. A quick glance at the trio’s faces proved that she was going to have to do some quick negotiating. “Bad idea. You know that. He’s injured -” The Courier pointed at the man - Rhys. “- and she’s a scribe out of ammo. The moment you’re out of the area, I’m going to try and leave. If I recall the way you people like to do things correctly, I’ll have to leave  _ violently _ . Neither of us want that. Take me with you.”

Rhys looked infuriated, and Haylen flushed red. They weren’t who she was trying to convince, thankfully.

“I’ve already helped. I could have left you. I came in willingly. I’m not an enemy.” she added, tone firm.  _ The Courier’s voice. _

Danse studied her. She knew she had a point. He had to know. The Brotherhood weren’t  _ stupid _ . Overconfident, yes, but never stupid.    
  
“On one condition. Empty your pack.” The paladin instructed. “We take what we need. You help me. Try anything and you’ll be shot.  _ Succeed _ in anything and you’ll have the wrath of the others come down on you. You don’t need to know why we’re doing what we’re doing. Just shoot.”

The Courier scowled. “You really know how to win hearts and minds, you know that?” Still, she loosed her pack from her shoulders and tossed it to the ground. 

“War is sacrifice.” Danse replied apologetically. 

One thing remained the same across the continent, it seemed.

The Brotherhood of Steel were bastards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squeezed out one last chapter before New Year's. Y'all have a great 2020. <3


	21. A Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen days pass. Deacon searches.

The Great Green Jewel was a lot like the sea. One way or another, everything flowed into it at some point.

Or so Deacon thought when he caught a glimpse of a red beret while posted up at the Dugout Inn. 

The Courier’s presence was a welcome distraction. Sitting around doing nothing was his least favorite activity - so when he’d exhausted the small list of errands he had with each visit to Diamond City being left alone to his thoughts was a nightmare. Having another wild card thrown into the mix was a blessing. Furthermore, the Courier seemed to be quite different from the last person to cross so much of the country. Where Kellogg caused pain without remorse, the Courier tried to fix things at little charge.

At the same time, however, it was a mark of time passing. With each impression the Courier made, each job she ran, another few days passed him by. Another few days of wandering around the city dressed as unassumingly as possible. Another few days Charmer spent in the Institute’s hands. 

He started to dip in at the Valentine Detective Agency, after the first week. Charmer had informed the synth detective of the signal interceptor and her plans for it, so he didn’t pay Deacon much mind when he said he’d come to keep Dogmeat company until she was back. Every evening, after dinner and before bed, Deacon would visit. Sometimes they’d talk about the Old World. Sometimes he’d play with Dogmeat. Each time he returned back to his room at the inn feeling a little better. As if by interacting with this slice of Charmer’s life he could feel her presence.

The days still passed. It was the fourteenth night of Deacon’s stay at Diamond City when Valentine diverged from their usual script.

“She’ll be alright, kid.” The detective had said gently, looking up from his case file. 

Deacon froze, midway through anxiously stroking Dogmeat’s back. He put on his best smile and tried to tell himself a convincing lie.

“I don’t doubt it.”

The morning of the fifteenth day, Deacon awoke with a pit in his stomach. Charmer was past her allotted time. He got ready slowly, drew out the motions of packing his things. His pace was a lazy stroll, as if he was just enjoying the early summer morning and not trying to make the time before he returned to HQ as long as possible.

He poked his head into the Detective Agency. Ellie yawned over a cup of tea, squinting in the sunlight he let in by opening the door. “I thought Nick told you we’d let you know if we saw her. How late were you here?”

“Ten. Eleven, maybe.” Deacon tried his best to look mildly inconvenienced, to give his anxiety a cover. 

“It’s barely been eight hours. Go back to bed.” Ellie waved her hand, looking like she wished she could do the same.

He swallowed and nodded swiftly before he closed the door.

\--

The next two days he spent exhausting any other options. Piper hadn’t heard from Charmer since the last time she was in Diamond City. Deacon stopped in at Goodneighbor. The town hadn’t seen a hair of her, either. 

He even made the trek up to Sanctuary. Making the journey alone gave him an intense sense of deja vu, as if it were late October all over again and he was about to see Charmer given to the Commonwealth. In early summer, however, the settlement was all bright green and the faded wood of shack houses. The only glimpses of red here were early ripening apples in the trees. A far cry from fall.

Preston was chatting with one of the supply drivers for the system of settlements that had begun cropping up since the rescue at Concord. Rebuilding the Minutemen, one step at a time. Deacon was glad Charmer had Garvey’s respect - the Railroad would need it in the future.

When he had managed to draw Preston aside and ask if he’d seen or heard from Charmer, however, that gladness dimmed. Not even the young man had heard anything from her. 

Deacon looked to the vault on the hill. He was fast running out of options. The vault was a new one.

Descending down the rusting elevator without her felt wrong. Without her to focus on he fell into old habits. Did what he did when constructing a new identity - tried to retrace the steps of people he’d intended to mimic, tried to identify and experience their feelings as his own so he could better replicate them when applied to his own constructed life.

Even here, he did it. Unconsciously connected with an ancient pain, as he looked toward the Glowing Sea. The elevator sank, and the light above him grew dimmer with every foot he descended.

Despite the season Vault 111 was still unsettlingly cold. He shivered - didn’t need a jacket in the temperatures up above, which made the vault distinctly uncomfortable. The chill was enough to push him forward quickly.

He retraced the steps they’d taken when they first picked up the Cyrolator. Deacon walked carefully and quietly, a foreign spirit drifting through the tomb. If Charmer had returned here, he didn’t want her to know he’d come. If she wanted to be left alone, he’d let her.

The Overseer’s office was empty. As were other rooms he assumed were the barracks and mess hall. Deacon wandered deeper into the vault. By now the chill had settled into his bones. The next door he opened made him feel as if ice had surrounded his heart.

Beyond lay two rows of pods. Each were sealed, their windows misted over by an opaque layer of frost. Cryopods. Must have been. There was a terminal near the door he’d entered from, and even if it felt like a betrayal, the information that remained in the vault might be enough to help him - and Charmer - understand why the Institute had taken her son. It could help the Railroad figure out what they had planned.

Something good could come out of the crime committed here.

The terminal listed the names of the dead. He scanned through them. None of them were Charmer’s. None of them were her son’s. All were dead from a life support failure. Still, he took down the names, made mental notes of the state of the pods, and moved to the next chamber. 

It was much the same as the first chamber - as were the next few. In the final chamber at the end of the hall, however, Deacon knew he’d crossed into sacred ground.

One of the cryopods was open. Instead of immediately going for the terminal as he had with the previous chambers, Deacon slowly walked toward it. Even now, he could see the outline in the cushions of a body that had rested on them for centuries.  _ This was Charmer’s pod. _

Which meant that the pod behind him held what she kept most dear. The darkest of secrets, the one which broke her apart by mere proximity.

Deacon turned. 

The pod was closed, but the window was not so frosted over as the others. It had been opened more recently, and by the few glimpses of crimson he could see within he knew why. 

Nate was a handsome man. Like Charmer, he had that pre-war quality that the Commonwealth just couldn’t compete with. Even dead (and by appearances frozen) the shades of health and luster the man once held were obvious. Dark of hair and with intense features, it was obvious why Charmer would have been willing to have a hasty marriage with him. He was older than her, smile lines etched around his mouth and at the corner of his eyes. But there was blood at his temple - while his head was turned in a way that blocked the exit wound from sight, Deacon could make out the dark circle through which the bullet had entered - and the blood frozen midway through dripping down the seat cushions. Handsome and dead. A morbid beauty. He felt no jealousy - merely a sting of pain for what she had lost. A familiar feeling.

Deacon stepped back and made his way over to the terminal, continuing his work of scanning the entries. Sure enough, Charmer and her family were listed, and were the sole exceptions among the other poor vault residents when it came to the cause of their pod failure.

He glanced up from the terminal to Charmer’s open pod. 

Her casket, awaiting her.

\--

Deacon refused to sleep before returning to HQ. He needed a new job before he slept. By now he knew the usual cycle of trauma. If he worked himself to the bone, he’d be too tired to dream. 

Drummer Boy stared at him when he entered the old crypt. For once, their resident town crier was silent. Charmer’s absence didn’t go unnoticed. The two men stared at each other - as much as they could, with Deacon’s eyes hidden by his glasses. Drummer Boy dropped his gaze to the ground and gave a slow nod.

“Dez has been waiting for you.” Drummer Boy said quietly, stepping aside to let Deacon pass.

“I know I’m late.” Deacon replied. He could make out Desdemona by her trademark ginger hair already. He wondered if she’d moved from the planning table since Charmer’s deadline had passed.

The table had become strewn with even more maps and papers in his absence. A report rustled in the breeze from his approach. Desdemona closed her eyes when he stopped across from her.

“Charmer isn’t with you.” she stated flatly.

“No.” His mouth had gone dry.

“Did you… meet with her?” It wasn’t like Desdemona to be optimistic, but now she was doing her best to make sure Deacon wasn’t playing a great joke on them all. 

“No.” It took most of his willpower to ensure his tone carried with it finality. “I looked everywhere I could think. Checked in with tourists. No one’s seen her. She hasn’t come back up.”

Carrington left his research table to join them. “You wasted valuable time. We already gave her too much. Now we’re behind - we could have used those days to get started on our back up plans.” He narrowed his eyes at Deacon. “Plans which will not require us to waste weeks finding materials to build another death trap.”

Deacon looked over to Tinker Tom. The man had paused in the middle of his work at Carrington’s words - spoken loud enough to carry their hurt, as always.

“I did the calculations.” Tom breathed. “It had to work.” He looked over to Deacon, his panic clear.

“The Institute is dangerous.” Desdemona cut in. “They could have noticed her cover.” It was an attempt to soothe Tom that served to further distress Deacon.

“No.” Deacon muttered. “I taught her. There’s no way.”

“Not well enough.” Carrington sniffed. “Whatever happened, it’s no concern of ours now - there’s nothing to be done other than to ensure we do not repeat our mistakes. Now, with the increased Courser sightings, I’d like to revisit our plan to have them tailed-”

“I’m not tailing a fucking Courser!” Glory shouted, turning into the main hall of the crypt from PAM’s chamber. She took note of Deacon’s arrival. Then her brow furrowed, gaze darting around the vault before her expression grew steely. She looked over to Desdemona for confirmation.

“You’re our only heavy, Glory.” Desdemona’s voice was cheerless.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Glory punched at the air. 

“Can’t we give it a little longer?” Drummer Boy piped up. “Just… hold off on crossing her name off, is all.” The young man had seen enough names struck and erased. The list on the chalkboard was terrifyingly short.

“She must have been captured.” Tinker Tom agreed. “Charmer’s done all sorts of crazy shit, wouldn’t put it past her to make a jail break.”

“You’re just saying that because your machine fucking blew her up, Tom!” Glory yelled and ran a hand through her hair. She’d acted the same after Switchboard. Anger and lashing out was her stress response - deadly for their foes, but terrible in these close quarters. 

“Glory-” Desdemona began, but the outburst from the group had begun to spiral out of control. Carrington was trying to forge ahead with their plan, Glory was starting to have a visible burn out at the prospect of being the last heavy again, Tinker Tom was back to yelling how small the chance of failure had been and Drummer Boy was pleading with everyone to stop.

Deacon stared at the display in silence. If it was anything else, maybe he’d have taken some enjoyment in the chaos. At the expression of the Railroad’s humanity, flaws and all. Now, though, Charmer wasn’t there to revel in it with him.

The Institute took no prisoners. He didn’t know where to find her, even if they did. If she was still alive, she wouldn’t be for long. 

No one heard him move, all too engaged in their argument to see him walking toward the chalkboard. Deacon approached the list of agents and picked up the piece of chalk.

Desdemona was the first to notice when he reached out and placed it against the board. Carrington saw her face pale, and followed her sight line. 

The rest soon followed. Collectively they watched as he dragged the chalk to the right. A shaky line cut through Charmer. Deacon had done it so many times before - been the only one detached enough to handle it. He’d seen so many come and go, it was as if he’d been granted the duty of the reaper. The curse of the oldest, the longest surviving. When the line had finished crossing over the letters of her name he dropped the chalk and pressed his fingers to the board.

This name hurt the most.

\--

Deacon felt numb. Loss was a lot like shock. Maybe the same thing. For the first little while things didn’t quite connect properly. 

There was no job for him. Not yet. Deacon would have to make his own. He informed Desdemona he had a new recruit in mind when he made his exit from HQ. His hand had been forced - with the Railroad’s new heightened desperation he was going to have to gamble.

It wasn’t the reason he excused himself when his insight may have been needed most, however. No, he had one last place to visit. One last, far flung hope.

Mercer.

He hadn’t checked initially - he figured she couldn’t stop by the safehouse without being noticed and that the venture would be a waste of time. Now, though - even if he’d crossed her name with his own hands, he couldn’t really trust in it until he’d exhausted every option.

It was foggy all day. An unseasonable cold front had come in quite suddenly. The world was softened, sunlight diffused. Dreamlike.

Agents were going about their business as usual at Mercer. A few gave him short waves as he passed, making his way for the apartment building stairs. News hadn’t spread just yet. He didn’t know if it’d be allowed to spread. Morale was hanging by a thread.

Deacon hadn’t been in the apartment in at least a month. Still, he felt the instinctive leap in his heart when his hand wrapped around the doorknob. Eagerness shot through him on reflex when he heard the door creak open - any minute now Charmer would chirp a greeting at him, and he’d be proven right yet again. He always knew better. Always knew she was capable of anything.

The feeling was replaced by emptiness when he saw the layer of dust on the floor. A window covering had been left open, keeping the room cold. A bowl of wasteland fruit had rotted.

No one had been in the penthouse in quite some time.

He shut the door behind him and stepped further inside, footsteps disturbing the dust. He scanned the apartment, feeling panic start to claw its way up his throat. Deacon looked for some sign, some hint she’d left behind just in case. He lifted the one loose floorboard she liked to stash caps under. Checked the footlocker sealed by code. Rifled through boxes, the fridge, cabinets. Opened the bookcase and started flipping through each novel, desperately searching for something - anything - in their pages.

He started to throw them aside with increasing force as the books left remaining on the shelves dwindled in number. When he reached the end, at last, reality set in. Deacon felt as if he was going to vomit. He stumbled over to the bed -  _ her bed _ \- and sat down heavily upon it. It smelled like her, still.

Charmer was woven into every part of the room. She’d let him weave parts of himself into it, too, and he’d been unable to keep himself from letting them grow together. Now those branches had died, spreading a rotting sickness through him.

The shock wore off.

Deacon removed his sunglasses and stared out into the fog.

After it all - after her suffering, her loss, her sacrifice. The happiness, the laughter. The pain he'd caused to try and protect her. The **love** he'd had for her.

It was all for nothing. Just another life snuffed out by the Wasteland, cheaply discarded. A senseless end, so unlike the books they'd read together that now lay strewn across the ground. It couldn't even have been a bittersweet one. He couldn't even let her have their friendship, at the end. The Institute would have tortured her and discarded her when her use was ended.

Deacon loved her. He knew it, was avoiding it, nearly confessed it to her when she stood illuminated by the signal interceptor. For decades he thought it'd never strike him again, that he'd remain hateful and isolated for the rest of his days. He knew that he couldn't afford it, not with the knowledge of what it was like to lose it. Not when misery dogged his steps. But he had so desperately wanted to hope. Charmer made him believe it was possible. That things could be different.

He wanted to vomit, but merely ended up hunched over and dry heaving. Deacon's body shuddered. The grief wracked through him in great waves. For a moment, there was light in the world. There was justice. There was proof that good succeeded, that one could reach noble ideals and still thrive. Charmer never had to compromise her beliefs. She shone like the sun, and he was lucky enough to stand in her light.

It was a beautiful dream.

But it was time to awaken.


	22. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's his duty to never forget.

The worst parts of him were always what saved him. Years of compartmentalization and turning his heart cold were the only things that kept him putting one foot in front of the other.

It didn’t stop him from flinching when he passed the rail signs they’d scribbled down. Didn’t quell the roiling sea in his mind when he stepped into Diamond City to break the news to Nick.

But it kept him alive.

Deacon kept his composure even when the synth detective’s face contorted with grief and Ellie’s eyes overflowed with tears. Even when Nick offered to shoulder the burden of bearing the news to the others Charmer had befriended. He wore the mantle completely, smothered himself with all of the masks he’d gathered over the years. He left the detective agency with a polite dip of his head, as if he was merely the messenger and felt nothing.

He was the consummate survivor, the witness. Destined to see better men and women die while he lingered on. Quitting wasn’t an option. It’d do a disservice to those he survived. Age was harder on the mind than on the body. The short life of a wastelander was a blessing. Hardship and pain came with post-war existence, but it didn’t last long enough for the bad to completely overwhelm the good. Memory was short. As he passed Takahashi’s stall he mused on how quickly history was forgotten. They ate at the site of a shooting, where the Commonwealth’s understanding of humanity was shaken, and knew no better. He envied the ability to forget.

Deacon paused in front of his destination. The Mega Surgery Center was clean as always - cleaner, now that Dr. Sun had taken charge. Another echo of Charmer’s presence. He stared at the door to the basement. It wasn’t the first time. For all the lies and fake personalities, nothing killed memory quite like seeing a different face in the mirror.

But this face was hers. Over the years he’d seen so many have their memories return to the dust, lost in time. Who would be left to remember her? What proof would linger that she existed?

For the first time he stepped away. At last he truly understood that it was his duty to remember. All of the second lives he’d constructed, the fake personalities - they were bits and pieces of those who had passed. Information boxed away but never truly lost, returning in breaths of advice and giving themselves to help him in his work.

There was more important work to do than soothe his psyche, the worst part of him murmured. He couldn’t afford the recovery time that came with a new face. The Railroad had lost their secret weapon. It was up to him to find them another.

\--

As if to spite them all, the Brotherhood got to the Courier first. Tourists reported seeing the woman with the red beret accompanied by a man in power armor en route to the airport. The last person to cross the continent was Kellogg. It was a sign of power - dangerous power - and to have that fall into the wrong hands was terrifying.

Deacon had thought he had a good gauge of her. Charmer’s loss had shaken his faith in his ability to read things.

It wouldn’t stop him from trying, though. Hancock was polite enough to let him know she’d picked up one of the Railroad holotapes and was curious enough to ask. Curious enough to care. It was enough to give him some hope, even in these times. Charmer’s legacy.

The Courier had taken up residence in Diamond City, like so many others.  _ Like Kellogg. _ He made sure he was dressed similarly to how he was in Goodneighbor. Recognizable. So very much the opposite of what he was used to.

He knocked on the metal door. 

After a few moments it opened to reveal the Courier. She was without her beret, thick dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The scent of cigarette smoke drifted about her. Expressionlessly she looked him up and down.

“Fuck do you want?” she asked flatly.

Not the best reception, but it’d have to do.

“I’ve got a proposition for you.” Deacon replied. He knew it was best in dealing with her to stay as genuine as possible, but now being genuine ran a very real risk of cracking his psyche in two. He’d have to acknowledge the truth, something he couldn’t afford. The man he was with Charmer felt like another false identity now, though - and it was one the Courier seemed to respond well to. “It doesn’t pay as much as other ones when it comes to caps.” he said truthfully. “Pays in something you can’t buy. Helps you sleep at night.”

The Courier narrowed her eyes. “Then I’ll tell you the same shit I told the Brotherhood. I don’t do causes.” She rested her shoulder against the doorway. It was bandaged. She seemed disgruntled, but comfortable enough. Her body language wasn’t defensive just yet. “Turns out badly for everyone involved.”

Deacon glanced to the market, ensuring he was still safe before responding. “I don’t think you believe that.” Her eyes widened a fraction, body recoiling in the slightest degree. “You’re making a name for yourself by helping people. I think you do plenty of causes, as long as there’s not an agenda behind them.”

To her credit, the Courier recovered quickly. She drew herself up to her full height and lifted her chin, a reminder of what she was capable of. “Who the hell are you?”

“Be happy to explain if you let me in.” he gestured to the door. “If you’re not interested I’ll leave and we’ll go about our business.” 

That did it. He saw her relax at the concept of no obligations. Deacon didn’t know how her dealings with the Brotherhood shook out, but if they lived up to the stereotype it was likely she was starved for the ability to make her own decisions again.

The Courier pushed the door open wider and stepped aside. “Fine. Make it quick.”

Home Plate was an ever rotating address. Deacon had seen it live numerous lives - shop, armory, home. The Courier kept it sparse. A soldier’s home, spartan and utilitarian. The bottom level was furnished only with what he assumed came with the place. The ‘kitchen’, so to speak, consisted of a broken refrigerator holding only a single crate of scavenged food and a handful of dishes. A battered card table sat across from it, flanked by three metal folding chairs. In the remaining section of the room was a threadbare couch and stained coffee table, strewn with medical supplies and a handful of tools. Her rifle lay upon it near bloodied bandages and a cigarette still smouldering in an ashtray. A half-full bottle of vodka sat on the floor next to the couch. He assumed the stairway to the loft led to her bedroom.

Still, there were little touches of humanity - scarce though they may be. An eyebot model sat above the door. Her duster and beret hung on a hook nearby. 

After shutting the door behind him the Courier gestured for him to take a seat on the couch. He sat down and watched her splash some vodka into a glass. She remained standing and glared down at him.

“Go on, then.”

Deacon folded his hands. “I’ll start by saying you’re already doing what we do. You’re making sure the people caught in the crossfire make it out alright. You’ve got a conscience, which is like finding a unicorn these days.”   
  
The Courier grunted and knocked back a sip of vodka. Her face contorted as it burned down her throat. “A conscience doesn’t do anything out here.”

“It does if you’ve got drive behind it.” He dipped his head toward her rifle. “I’m not asking you to make a decision and change the world. Not how we operate. We’re just trying to make sure the Institute doesn’t destroy us without sacrificing what we’re trying to protect in the process.”

“Yeah? And what happens when it’s all over and done with? When your foe lies dead in the dirt?” she paced, vodka swaying in the dirty glass. “You don’t get power and let go of it. You’ll start trying to build the world in your image, because you’re all that can be trusted with it. It happens every. Fucking. Time.”

“We don’t have power.” Deacon replied quietly. The despair he’d been withholding managed to leech its way into his tone. “We’re just your average wastelanders. Scavvers, traders. The only thing protecting us is secrecy. If that’s gone - and it will be, if we ever succeed - we couldn’t take over anything even if we wanted to. That’s not why we’re around.”

The Courier paused in her pacing. “What’s a bigger draw than power?”

“Revenge.” He said it plainly. “Look. Hancock told me you found our holotape. It’s our highest ideals and aspirations. It’s why we started - those few saints who wanted to help just because it was the right thing to do. But that’s not how you grow bigger. Saints are few and far between out here. But people who’ve lost something?” His voice cracked in spite of himself. He cleared his throat, speaking more lowly. “A lot more of them than saints. Institute’s done a lot of damage.”

Understanding dawned on her features. “So  _ you’re _ the Railroad.” she murmured, taking another sip of her drink. The anger had drained from her tone. Making progress. “What makes you think I give a shit? I’m new here. Got no stake in this.”

“Because you’re trying to make up for the past.” He played his card. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. It’s why I’m here.” He swallowed. 

It was a dangerous maneuver, but it paid off. Whatever fury he’d initially sparked smouldered down. The Courier studied him over the rim of her glass, silent for a few moments. “How’s it been working out for you?” she asked at last, voice soft.

Deacon shrugged. “I’m alive.” he replied, equally as gently. “Don’t quite feel like I deserve it, but at least I’m earning my keep.”

The Courier knocked back the rest of her glass and set it down on the table in front of him. “Biggest question.” Before he could stop her, she reached out and took the glasses from his face. A hostage. “Who are you going to have to kill to get what you want?”

“The Institute.” he began. “Which probably includes some of the best minds the Commonwealth will ever see, given what they’ve created. And the synths we can’t save.” Deacon swallowed before he continued. “They’re unavoidable. The Brotherhood is something we’d like to avoid, but they don’t seem to see it that way.”

The Courier snorted. “They hauled me in front of Maxson. I told him they were bent on cleansing the land out west and got their shit pushed in for it and that they were playing a dangerous game trying it here.” She rubbed at her shoulder. “Didn’t earn many favors for that. Don’t think they like having their authority questioned.”

Deacon couldn’t help but eye his glasses in her hand. He felt naked without them. “Exactly. But we’re not engaging. Can’t afford to. Don’t have the people.”

She noticed his gaze. “That it?”

“Unless mole people pop out of the ground and start ravaging the countryside? Yeah. That’s our hit list.” Deacon gave her a shaky smile and earned his glasses back. He could feel his body settle when his eyes were covered once more.

“I managed a truce between the Brotherhood and an enemy, once upon a time.” The Courier stared at the wall, envisioning memory. “But they were weak. Didn’t have a big fuck-off zeppelin, for starters. I can’t help you there.”

Jackpot. He’d convinced her. “Not what we’d ask you to do. Like I said before - just the same things you’ve already been doing. Killing raiders. Gen 1 patrols. Making the streets safer. And, uh…” His smile grew cheeky. “A couple courier jobs. Figured you’d be good at it.”

“Keep that up and I’ll change my mind.” she retorted. “Last question.”

“Shoot.”

“What am I supposed to call you?”

Part of him had considered retiring his current codename. Getting something new. He’d taken up the mantle of Deacon after the first big hit the Railroad took. It made sense to pull out another after this one.

Just like his face, though, his name belonged to someone else.

“Deacon.”

\--

Getting the Courier settled was a godsend of a distraction. After the first few days of giving her the rundown, it fast became clear she wasn’t going to settle for being just another tourist. Dez didn’t take much convincing to give the Courier clearance for Mercer. They needed another heavy, and fast.

Glory jumped on the chance. The Courier was being thrown directly into the fire, saddled with Glory on her missions because they couldn’t afford to keep her out of the action. When Deacon next stopped in at Mercer, he caught the two of them mowing down a super mutant patrol near the shoreline with wide smiles. It didn't take Glory long to cheer up. The two women had taken to their partnership with a natural ease.

The parallels didn’t pass him by. Deacon tried not to dwell on it. Easy enough, as he was kept busy running undercover jobs and tailing the Brotherhood. From the few details he was able to gather, they too had stumbled across some Institute technology and were in the process of decoding it.

Things kept going from bad to worse. It’d be some sick cosmic justice if it was the Brotherhood that ended up wiping out the Institute, only to turn around and mow down the rest of the Commonwealth after the fact.

Even such a looming threat paled in comparison to the void Charmer’s absence left. It filled him with guilt - the fate of the Commonwealth was at stake, hundreds of more lives if not thousands would be lost if they failed. At the end of the day, though, a victorious future was hollow without her.

He couldn’t stop fighting for it, though. If not for himself - then for her.


	23. Radiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier runs her first big job.

Change was like a Mojave storm. Things could remain static for what felt like an age, and then all at once the downpour arrived.

The Courier tried to hold onto the status quo. After facing Gen 1s for the first time at ArcJet and earning Danse’s admiration she was granted an invitation to the Brotherhood of Steel by Arthur Maxson himself. She turned him down flat and gave her warning. The escort off of the Prydwen was rough enough to nearly dislocate her shoulder.

At least Danse apologized. She’d spare him the bullet if the chance arose.

She couldn’t maintain being uninvolved forever, though. Change found her while she recovered from her injuries in Diamond City in the form of the man she’d given confession to in Goodneighbor.

His name was Deacon.

_ Ain’t that a kick in the head. _

Somehow she got roped into the Railroad. Deacon had a part in it, but they really had the Followers of the Apocalypse to thank. Arcade, Veronica, and Julie. Trying to make the world a better place with minimal resources and accosted at all sides by forces that couldn’t let altruism stand. The Courier’s actions had resulted in their withdrawal from Vegas.

Maybe the Railroad was a chance to finally earn herself some redemption. Deacon seemed to find that it helped. If saving synths was what it took for her to finally get some long sought after peace, she’d take the chance.

At worst, the pattern would hold. Death and destruction would follow in her wake. Maybe this time she’d be numb to it.

Still, signs pointed in an optimistic direction. She’d come with her own codename. The Courier had no attachments in the Commonwealth, nothing to lose by virtue of her title. Perhaps this was where her path was leading her all along.

Subterfuge wasn’t exactly her style, but the role she was needed to fill required little of it. She got the idea that her acceptance into Mercer safehouse was one that should have taken longer - but whatever she did during her crash courses with Deacon must have made an impression. It was unclear _ how _ exactly she could impress when learning about rail signs and counter-signs, but she wasn’t going to question good fortune. If they were going to benefit from her presence, they had to let her work.

Mercer turned out to be a surprisingly bustling little settlement sandwiched in a hidden alley not far from Diamond City. Clothes lines hung above, spanning from window to window alongside wiring leading to makeshift generators. The alley itself was host to a couple shop stalls and numerous garden plots. In the apartment buildings, conversation and faint music trailed through open windows. The sun shone brightly overhead and a warm summer breeze pushed at her back.

It felt good.

“So - you’ve already got some pretty nice digs in Diamond City, so I don’t think you’ll have to bunk down here too often.” Deacon said over his shoulder, leading her past curious onlookers into a concrete building. The first room they entered looked like a rec room - there was a pool table littered with beer bottles, a well-worn dartboard on the wall, and a handful of couches crowded around a radio. “You’ll still have a place to crash, either way. Nothing pretty, but you’re welcome to spruce it up.”

He led her around a corner to a wide hallway lined with bunkbeds - some with salvaged frames, others constructed. Many of the bottom bunks were shielded from view with tarps and hanging cloth tied to the bunk above. Some of the top bunks had decorations hanging from them - christmas lights, small colorful buoys, boat flags. Some agents took to customizing their quarters better than others. The Courier let out a low whistle. “Don’t know where I’d start.”

Deacon smiled at her, but there was something a little off about it that she couldn’t put her finger on. “Now that you know it’s a possibility, you’d be surprised how you start to see things.” His smile faded a little, but he quickly laughed to cover it up. “Not that I’ll blame you if you don’t. Gotta be ready to jet from here faster than a raider on… well, Jet. Can’t really keep any keepsakes.”

The Courier studied him. The man took to studying quite well, his stance casual. She supposed it wasn’t his first rodeo. Unable to find just what underlying feeling went unsaid, she answered simply. “Got it.”  
  
“Cool.” Deacon replied smoothly. “I’ll show you the exits. Turrets cover the main two along the gates, but there’s more places out of here through the buildings. Usually not what you want in a safehouse, but given that this one is semi-public additional risk of people wandering in isn’t a problem.” 

She followed him up and down stairs, through twisting hallways, into basements and over rooftops. The Courier wasn’t an urban explorer, not by a long shot - her survival skills were best tailored to the wilderness - but even with her scarce knowledge she was impressed. If this was what the Railroad did for one of their newer safehouses, she wondered how secure their headquarters were.

At last their tour came to an end when they looped from a basement exit back around to Mercer’s main gate. “As a heavy you’re best holding down the fort and getting everyone who can’t hold a gun out if shit hits the fan. There’s evac drills every so often. But, uh, speaking from personal experience - when things go down, they go down fast. Do what feels right.” Deacon smiled again, though this one lacked humor.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The sun’s angle had changed while the two of them toured Mercer, now shining into her eyes. She unclipped her aviators from her shirt and slid them over her eyes.

“Hope it doesn’t come to that, anyways. Alright. I’ve got some work to do, but Glory’s been nagging me to finally come and see you. She’s our, uh…” Deacon pressed his lips together, looking as if he was trying to remember something. “... only heavy right now.” He finished quietly, hands falling limply to his sides.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You mean to tell me you’re running all this-” The Courier whispered, sweeping her arm over the apartment buildings above. “-with just _ one _ person able to shoot worth a damn?”

Deacon raised a hand. “With one person whose job is _ entirely _ shooting, yes. Everyone knows how to fight. Trained professionals are rarer - and… well. You’ve run in this line of work. I wouldn’t say the turnover’s slow.” 

The Courier grunted, raising her tone back to a normal volume. “So who am I replacing?”

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. Deacon clapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll leave that explanation to Glory when she gets here. Feel free to grab a beer from the rec room or catch a couple Zs while you wait. Should only be a couple hours unless an emergency comes up.”

The change in subject didn’t pass her notice, but she let it lie. “I’ll ask her, then.” Habitually, her hand rose to her forehead in a salute - but this time, it was a lazy one. Deacon beamed, waved farewell, and slunk back into Boston’s urban jungle.

\--

The Courier was seated on a bare bunk with a nearly finished beer in hand when her mentor-to-be entered the hallway. She was a woman with warm dark skin, silver hair, and a minigun almost as big as she was.

“So you’re the Courier, huh?” The woman called, voice slightly husky. 

“That I am.” she replied, downing the rest of her beer. “Got a geiger counter?”

“Aw, christ, Deacon’s got you on that shit real fast.” The woman rolled her eyes. Her features reminded her of the Mojave. So many in Boston were softer, sallower - but the woman was sharp, sleek. “Yeah, yeah. Mine’s in the shop. Don’t worry about it in safehouses, whatever Dee’s told you. He’s paranoid.”

Whatever reservations the Courier had melted away at the woman’s easy manner. “Guess that means you’re Glory, huh.” She set her beer bottle on the floor and stood. 

“Don’t forget it.” Glory jerked her chin upward and smirked. All confidence. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, so I’ll keep it straight. Yes, I’m a synth. Whatever rumors you've heard are bullshit. I bleed, piss, and shit like everyone else. If you have a problem with it, first I’ll have to beat the hell out of Deacon for letting a bigot in and then I’ll do the same to you.”

The Courier simply stared. She’d only seen Gen 1s and Diamond City’s detective when it came to synths so far. Glory was her first Gen 3.

“Quiet. Thank fuck for that.” Glory hummed. “Good. Not that I can complain much, Deacon’s been quiet lately - but I appreciate a woman who knows that sometimes silence is the best answer.” She looked the Courier up and down appreciatively. 

It caused an odd heat to rise to her cheeks. “I’m not all quiet. Just don’t like to say much until I know where things stand.” The Courier shrugged. 

“Then let's not waste any time figuring that out.” Glory turned on her heel and gestured for the Courier to follow her. “We’ve got some muties to down.”

\--

Glory’s teaching methods were very hands-on. She watched the Courier fight, offered what little advice she could think of, and let the Courier do the rest. A stint with the NCR had made her capable at all ranges - though long range was still her favored place.

It clashed with Glory’s preference of being in the heart of the action, but it made them a decent enough team. With the synth woman pulling all attention to her, the Courier blew off the heads of foes that were foolish enough to think they’d found cover.

A heavy’s work was, in fact, what she’d been doing already. Most of it was clearing out a mutant infestation or raider camp from package routes. Glory told her that sometimes priority targets came up - like bounties - but that in recent times such jobs were rare and only done if absolutely necessary.

Working with Glory felt nice. The woman was cocky, but more importantly she was happy, doing her job gleefully. It was a contagious feeling. When the Courier sniped a super mutant suicider and took out an entire camp with it Glory cackled and slapped her on the back.

It only took a few days to feel at ease with the woman. One hot summer night they sat across from each other on the alley steps, unwilling to head inside and into the heat just yet. They shared a comfortable silence, Glory resting her back against the wall and the Courier sharpening her knife with a whetstone.

“Got a question for you.” The Courier broke the silence and paused in her work.

Glory opened an eye, brow raised. “This mean you know where you stand?”

The Courier smiled. “Think so.” The answer seemed to please Glory - the synth woman leaned forward in interest. “When Deacon gave me the tour-” Glory’s face soured a little at the mention of Deacon’s name. “-I asked him about who I was replacing. He told me that you-” she pointed her knife in Glory’s direction. “-were the one to ask.”

The silver haired woman opened both of her eyes now. She rolled her shoulders, as if bracing herself. “Typical fucking Deacon. Can’t blame him, I guess. Our last heavy was partnered up with him for a while.” 

This piqued the Courier’s interest. “He miss them?”

Glory scoffed and shook her head. “Sister, Deacon doesn’t miss anyone. No, he’s just licking his wounds because he got proven wrong for once. Pretty sure he didn’t want to admit it to you. Bad first impression, I guess.”

What was said didn’t connect with what she remembered from the bar in Goodneighbor. The Courier frowned. “How so?”

“Well…” Glory glanced around, making sure there were no unwanted ears. “She was cherrypicked. Like you. Except she came to us first, which made her extra special. No offense.”

“None taken.” The Courier wasn’t one to compete with ghosts. She’d had enough of it for one lifetime. “So he thought he found someone skilled and she disappointed him. Hm. What was she like?”

“Don’t think she disappointed him. Just… well. It’s shit I can’t talk about. Either way, she’s dead. Not something you’ll repeat if you’re smart.” Glory pressed her painted lips together thoughtfully, a trace of sadness in her eyes. “Surprised you care. You seem the superstitious type, thought you’d think it’s bad luck to know who came before you.”

“I’ve already got plenty of bad luck.” The Courier shrugged. 

“Huh. Alright. Well - she went by Charmer. You might’ve heard people mention her around here already, she and Deacon set this place up. Kind of a big deal, besides that. You ever read Publick Occurrences? Diamond City’s newspaper?”

“No.”

Glory snickered. “Me neither. Well, Charmer gave a big interview in it before she joined up with us, apparently. Said she was pre-War, had been a popsicle in a vault until last year and crawled out looking for her son. Gave the interview hoping it'd help her find him. It didn't." Her expression faltered a moment. "I don’t really buy into all the pre-War hype, but her codename was Charmer for a reason.”

The story sparked recognition in her mind - it matched up with Hancock’s tale. The woman he spoke of went by Blue, however - the name before the Railroad. A small picture was knitting itself together. Her internal question when she had first heard of Blue was answered.

Blue, Charmer, whatever her name was - she fell into the category of a hero who died young, before the world could get to her. Spared the Courier's fate.

Maybe the Courier would raise a drink to her memory one of these nights.

“They thought partnering up Deacon with someone codenamed Charmer was a good idea?” The Courier tilted her head and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

Glory laughed properly at that. “That’s what I said, but Charmer was alright. Deacon acted better around her. Barely.” She rolled her eyes - then looked at the ground with a slight frown. “I miss her, even if he doesn’t. She was one of the good ones.”

The Courier tried to smile rather than wince. “Sounds like I’ve got big shoes to fill.”

“Don’t worry.” Glory stretched out her leg and gently nudged the Courier’s boot. “I’ve got a good feeling about you.”

\--

Low numbers meant that the Courier had to follow Glory on assignment - there was no other heavy to pass her off to. These assignments usually resulted in their killing a great deal of people and coming across rotting corpses of Railroad agents.

Their hatred for the Institute must have been fierce indeed, if things had become this dangerous and the Railroad hadn’t yet collapsed. She was getting the distinct impression that being a part of the organization was nearly a suicide mission.

Fortunately for them, she didn’t value her life too terribly.

She and Glory were headed north of Boston to check up on a sighted Gen 1 patrol when a storm rolled in from the sea. The Courier didn’t know the area well enough to know if the weather was cause for alarm - but Glory had cursed on seeing the color and formation of the clouds.

“Fuck. Too late to make camp and stay dry now.” Her synth companion muttered, picking her pace up into a jog. “Let’s hope we can find some shelter before we’re too soaked.”

The Courier nodded, and the two of them scanned their surroundings as they headed west in a vain attempt to outrun the storm. It seemed a genuinely quaint thing, after seeing Storm in its full power in Kansas.

Laser fire nipped at their heels. They turned to see the source - a couple of turrets seated atop a concrete bunker. Her singed ankles were worth the revelation of a source of shelter - they’d never have seen it if not for the turrets. The machines were quickly dealt with and the two women jogged inside just as a peal of thunder rang out. 

“Going to be a while before that blows over.” Glory grumbled, peering back at the storm before she shut the bunker door. 

The Courier flicked on her pip-boy light, illuminating their surroundings. It was a small, dark room; playing host to a desk, filing cabinets, and a tattered American flag. All in all, fairly typical for a pre-War bunker. 

An elevator sat at the back of the room. It didn’t pass Glory’s notice. “... want to kill some time and go exploring?” There was a playful lilt to her tone, and she gave the Courier a gentle elbow.

“If exploring’s what you have in mind.” The Courier responded in exchange, the playful tone contagious. How soon she had forgotten the state she arrived to the Commonwealth in. How quickly companions - true companions - soothed her aches. It was a feeling long missed.

Glory snickered, and the two of them squeezed into the elevator - Glory with minigun in hand, the Courier with her .44 magnum.

“Contact!” Glory yelled a fraction of a second after the elevator doors opened. Whether being a synth gave her inhuman reflexes or she’d just made a lucky guess was up in the air - either way, laser fire singed the elevator wall behind them. 

The room beyond was host to numerous rusting pre-war consoles and filing cabinets, providing them both cover to attack the source of the laser fire - three protectrons. Glory opened up on two of them, shredding their chassis in just a few moments. The Courier shattered the glass dome containing the circuitry of the third and was about to take aim at its processors before she saw a familiar face aiming a gun at Glory from the next room over.

“DANSE!” The Courier shouted, causing the man to miss when he fired. He stared at her, dumbfounded, while Glory turned the third protectron into swiss cheese.

“Friend of yours?” Glory yelled over the sound of the protectron hitting the concrete. 

The Courier could barely hear her, ears ringing from the sound of minigun fire in such close quarters. She merely nodded in reply, holstering her magnum and jogging into the next room. Glory followed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Danse demanded when the two women entered. He wasn’t wearing his power armor - in fact, it was nowhere in sight. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. The paladin looked… small.

“We’ll ask the questions here, _ Brotherhood. _” Glory sneered, levelling her minigun at him. Danse didn’t raise his gun, nor did he seem particularly angry. Something was out of character - even by the Courier’s brief knowledge of him.

“Taking shelter from the storm.” The Courier answered to Glory’s annoyance. She shot her an apologetic look and hoped her mentor would trust her. “Could ask you the same thing. Do you… need help? I thought paladins weren’t supposed to be out in the field without their armor unless something happened.”

Danse visibly deflated. “I’m fine.” he said too quickly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m just… I…”

Glory watched the man struggle for words with far too much enjoyment. The Courier was somewhat impressed at the man’s inability to lie, but found her concern overrode it.

“Paladin. Are you alright?” she repeated. A wrinkle formed between his brow - he was trying to maintain composure. Whatever was threatening to crack _ him _must have been fierce indeed.

“It’s Brotherhood business.”

“Really? Because I don’t see anything useful in this trash heap.” Glory cut in, flicking her hair out of her eyes. 

“Tell me how I can help.” The Courier spoke gently. “This isn’t a trap.” She shot another look at Glory. “You - and maybe Haylen - are the only members of the Brotherhood out here that aren’t complete shits. Try me.”

Danse inhaled deeply, straining the fabric of his jumpsuit. “Well. Suppose it doesn’t really matter who kills me, in the end.” He looked between her and Glory, then turned to sit on a dirty steamer trunk behind him. “I’m a synth.”

The two women were rendered speechless. The paladin swallowed and continued quickly now that he’d dropped the bombshell. “I didn’t know. I swear. The Brotherhood managed to keep part of a synth core intact. They sequenced a code of DNA exclusive to synths from it, among other things. It matched mine. Promise me you’ll tell Haylen, after. I didn’t know until they did.”

Their own questions came quickly, nearly talking over one another. “How did you escape?” Glory asked.

“What makes you think we’re going to kill you?” The Courier tilted her head.

It wasn’t the reception Danse had been expecting. He straightened his posture, leaning back slightly in shock. “I won’t say how I got out. I won’t betray the Brotherhood.” he answered Glory first, before his tone grew incensed. “I’m a synth, Courier. Created by the Institute. A mockery of humanity, a pale shadow of technology. I’m everything that brought humanity to its knees the first time.”

“Watch it.” Glory warned, though her expression was one of sympathy rather than anger. “I’ve been in your shoes. Everything they’ve told you - it’s a lie. We breathe. Eat. Bleed. Cry. Think. We skip the whole childhood thing and suddenly we’re no longer people? Nobody knew what you were. Nobody would have known if you didn’t find something you weren’t supposed to. I don’t even _ know _ you but I know by looking at you that you’re everything about the Brotherhood that pisses me off. Now they’re happy to throw you out? They used you.”

Danse slid off of the steamer trunk and drew himself to his full height. He closed the distance between himself and Glory, furious. “The Brotherhood has existed for centuries, they’re humanity’s-”

“They’re _ hypocrites _.” Glory returned. “How is it that we’re what’s wrong? They come flying in on gunships and don’t give a shit where they’ll crash or who they’ll kill. They kill scavvers over fancy tech. But we’re the problem? Do you even know how many civvies you’ve killed? Those aren’t synths. Humans. And so help me, if you say they were necessary casualties I don’t give a shit what the Courier says, I’m going to make you see your own guts.”

The paladin said nothing, clenching his jaw so hard the Courier could see a vein in his neck jump. 

“You don’t believe it, Danse.” she said quietly, calm demeanor a fierce contrast to Glory’s fury. “Wouldn’t still be here if you did. You wouldn’t have ran.”

“Fuck.” Danse swore, turning around swiftly and walking away from Glory. He paced, breathing heavily. “I’ve got nothing. My entire life has been a lie. I thought - I _ think _ things because of false memories. Everything I am, it’s because of things that aren’t real. I can’t live like this.”

“But you want to.” The Courier saw Glory’s expression turn to one of utter adoration. It gave her the confidence to divulge her past to a broken man. “I told you I was shot in the head. I was buried. Dead. I don’t remember anything before the grave. Everything from before may as well be fake memories.” She stepped toward Danse and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m human, but I’m built on something that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m not any different than a synth.”

She finally broke through to him. Danse’s lips pressed together, and his eyes shone with a hesitant hope.

“Let go. Begin again.” The words left her mouth before she realized it, the mantra that had carried her across deserts and plains, through Storm and out the other side. The mantra Father Elijah could never accept. Perhaps this child of the Brotherhood could. “We’ll help you.” The Courier dropped her hand from his shoulder and held it out to him in offering.

Danse took it. His grip was firm, palms calloused. “Okay, soldier.”

\--

The storm had abated by the time they rode the elevator back up. The world smelled fresh, clean, the grime washed away by the rain. 

“We still have a mission to do.” Glory began when they stood outside, boots squishing in the damp earth. It gave the Courier an odd sense of deja vu. “But you don’t have the clearance to go where we’ve got to take him.” 

Danse had been quiet since his agreement to follow. The Courier had a suspicion that he didn’t care if this all ended up being a trap - his value for his own life was perilously low. Hopefully time spent with other synths - and a Railroad that valued them - would change that.

“So.” Glory continued. “I want you to finish scouting for those synths. Head a couple miles further north, then come down along the shoreline. I’ll take our friend here to people who can help us out. Head back to Mercer when you’re done. Pretty sure you won’t have to worry about clearance after this.” She beamed. A full smile from Glory lived up to her codename - it made the woman even more beautiful, if such a thing was possible. “It’ll be my turn to sing a newbie’s praises. Deacon better move the fuck over.”

The Courier couldn’t help but smile back. She found herself rather tongue tied, and only managed an awkward “Got it.” 

“Alright, Danse. Follow my lead. First thing we gotta do is get you some different clothes. Let’s find some raiders to pick off.” Glory said cheerily. Danse was the type to find the woman’s taste for violence as endearing as the Courier did. He shot the Courier a hesitant (but thankful) smile before he began the trek south with Glory.

The Courier watched their backs for a few moments, feeling like she’d made a difference in a good way for the first time in years.  
  
_She did say she'd spare him the bullet._

At the remembrance, she laughed into the wind.

\--

The weather remained overcast as the Courier continued her patrol, heading northeast toward the shoreline. Occasionally she felt a few drops on her face, but they never amounted to anything more than a drizzle. 

There was no sign of the synth patrol that had been reported on her way north. She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Doing as Glory instructed, she turned back to the south when she hit the shoreline and started walking south along the ruined highway.

She’d figured the journey south would be as uneventful as the trek north, but kept her eyes open nevertheless. Her keen eyes were rewarded when she caught a very interesting sight etched into the rocks by the highway _ just so _, hidden from view from all who weren’t looking for something along this particular stretch.

One of those chalk drawings she’d seen scattered about Boston. A rail sign - a cross surrounded by radiant lines.

_ Ally _.

The Courier could just glimpse the top floor of a ruined cottage further up the embankment. Curious, she walked until she found a beaten path leading upward. 

If there was still someone friendly living up there, she could use a drink.


	24. Erosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting.

The Courier’s feet dug into the sand of the embankment as she climbed the steep path. An old red shed came into view, along with the rest of the ruined cottage. The cause of its destruction became clear when she crested the hill - a sizeable sinkhole.

She paused to catch her breath. The mist that blew in off the sea was a relief. Her nostrils filled with the scent of salt and water. A brief moment of calm.

It was broken when she realized she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t unexpected, exactly, but she hadn’t thought to have gone so long without noticing. On the still intact deck of the cottage a woman sat in a faded wooden chair, the once-white paint nearly peeled off completely. The woman seemed small - her knees were drawn up to her chin, for safety or for warmth - and her gaze was fixed on the horizon, attention far away.

At least the Courier went similarly unnoticed. The advantage was on her side. Her hand rested casually on the grip of her .44 while she took a few careful steps forward and cleared her throat.

The woman in the chair jolted, her hand moving on similar reflex to a pistol at her hip. Her eyes were wide with fright, like a cornered radstag.

“Hey.” The Courier greeted gently. It didn’t quell the stranger’s concerns, her eyes darting from red beret to sniper rifle.

“... hey.” It was a polite reply, though cautious. “If you’re here to rob me, all I have is the gun. You can check, if you want.” 

“Do I look like a raider to you?” The Courier inquired, genuinely curious. Her hair flowed loose in the breeze. “No. I’m just looking for a geiger counter. Don’t happen to have one, do you?”

The stranger blinked at her. A few seconds passed - long enough to make the Courier second guess herself. It felt calculated.

“Mine’s in the shop.”

The Courier let her hand drop from where it rested and sauntered over to the deck. “So. That part about not having anything a lie, or are you stuck up here without any supplies?”

“Little bit of both.” The stranger murmured. “Just ran out of what I managed to scavenge. Didn’t want to leave just yet.” Her gaze turned back to the sea, chin returning to rest on her knees. She was older than the Courier, fledgling crows feet visible in the corners of her eyes, silver gathering at her temple. The stranger looked to be in better shape than her, at least - if not a little thin.

“Hrmph. Could’ve used a drink.” A cigarette packet was withdrawn from the Courier’s duster. She slid one out. “You smoke?”

“No.”

A lighter was retrieved from another pocket. The Courier stuck the cigarette between her lips and lit it. “Pity.” she exhaled, a cloud of smoke joining the word. “You look like you could use one.”

That got a small chuckle out of the stranger. Melancholy thing.

“Courier Six.” she introduced herself between drags. The woman cast her an odd look. “Name’s a long story.” 

“I’ve got time.” The woman rolled her head so that her cheek now rested on her knees, tearing her attention away from the sea at last to peer at her new visitor.

“I’d like to know who you are, first.” Ash fell from the tip of her cigarette. The ground was damp enough that she didn’t care. “I’m not a stickler for manners, but I’d at least like to know who I’m telling my stories to. Not that you’ll believe them.” 

The laugh the stranger gave startled her. Bitter. “I’ve seen enough shit to believe anything.” she spat. “Try me. Promise I’ll tell you after.”

It was like looking in a funhouse mirror. The stranger’s demeanor cast out ripples of memory, familiar feelings. A canvas tent. An ashen taste in her mouth. The other side of the Dam. There was a story here.

She took a long, thoughtful drag, then nodded. “Alright. Tale for a tale. I’m from out west. Far out west.” The Courier tapped the patch on her beret with her free hand. “New California Republic.”

There was an odd recognition in the stranger’s eyes. She straightened in her chair immediately and let her legs drop back to the ground. Her body leaned forward, giving the impression that she was already utterly invested. The Courier didn’t know if she liked it.

“Not from California, though. They expanded into the Mojave. Uh. Desert, in-”

“Nevada.” The stranger finished for her. “It survived the war?”

It was unsettling. The woman knew too much for the Courier’s comfort, but there was a childlike eagerness in her eyes that was disarming. There were worse places to die than a cottage at the sea, at least.

“More or less. Bombs didn’t hit it. House had a system in New Vegas. Or something like that.” Her nose wrinkled at the memory. Sneering pre-War narcissism. Her life another pawn to be moved. Centuries of history. Burned into ash. Another bitter drag from her cigarette.

“Now I know you aren’t bullshitting.” The stranger was on the edge of her seat, hands clasped between her knees. “New Vegas.” she exhaled, tone one of wonder.

It made the Courier smile. “Yeah. I was a courier in the area. There were a few of us.” Dreadlocks and a gas mask. The duster draped over her shoulders. Another courier across the Divide, a connection she couldn’t remember that somehow still nearly ran deeper than anything. “I got shot.” she gestured at the scar at her temple. “Don’t remember who I was before it. Backtracked enough to find out I was courier number six. It stuck.”

“You don’t know your name?” The woman canted her head, a small crease forming between her brows. Concern. It was… oddly motherly. Somehow the Courier thought she could be trusted. It dawned on her that it was perhaps this exact reason why the woman was part of the Railroad. Even when melancholy, her warmth was disarming.

A shrug. “Learned it eventually.” Another flick of ash to the ground. “Wasn’t important to anyone, though. Job title was enough.”

“How did you get here?”

“That’s another story.” It was time to cut the questions off, to get what she was promised. The Courier knew better than to do too much without pay. 

The stranger withdrew back to the chair, wrapped her arms around herself. Worry etched across her features. “Just one more question. You new?”

A scowl, soothed by smoke filling her lungs once more. “Yeah. They needed a new heavy.”

“... I’m sure they did.” her companion murmured. She stood at last - a full foot shorter than the Courier. “I’m Charmer.”

The Courier figured her recognition must have been plain on her face, given how Charmer’s expression grew slightly panicked. _ Charmer. Blue. _A woman who’d grown her own legend. A kindred spirit.

In more ways than one, judging by the dark circles under her eyes. Charmer had survived long enough for the dream to crash around her, it looked like.

“I heard you were dead.” The Courier leaned up against the weathered siding of the cottage, posture relaxed. Assured she was no longer in danger - assuming what she’d been told was correct.

It was news to Charmer. Her shoulders slumped. “I… guess it’s been a while.” Her attention was being drawn back to the sea again. She turned and walked to the railing, her back to the Courier. She laid her hands - small, smooth things - upon the worn wood. 

The Courier was getting a bad feeling. “How long have you been up here?”

“Few days.” Charmer returned, voice oddly flat. “Couldn’t head back. Not yet.”

Goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. “Do you want to head back?”

Silence. The waves crashed in the distance, wearing down the rocky shore as they had for millennia, untouched by the machinations of man.

“... I don’t know.”

That voice was familiar. It’d come forth from her own lips, years ago. The Courier decided that it was best if she stayed with Charmer for the next little while. She’d done it once before, with Boone - stayed up all night with him, after revisiting Bitter Springs. Watched the stars move across the sky while waiting for his breathing to finally calm.

“Well. I won’t tell.” she finished her cigarette, dropping it to the ground and crushing it under her heel. “Your choice.”

It triggered something in Charmer. She whirled around, eyes wild. “Don’t say that. Don’t tell me that.”

The Courier nearly pulled her gun on the woman, but managed to hold back her feral instincts. Instead she stared - watched as whatever energy had struck Charmer disintegrated. She tried to pull apart her memories, attempted to connect what she’d heard of the woman with what had just happened before her eyes.

A circuit completed. Sparked. The man in Goodneighbor - the man she’d told of her making a choice that wasn’t truly hers. Deacon was the common element. It was a risky thread to follow. One that would have her treading on dangerous ground - but after a week with Glory, it didn’t frighten her. She welcomed it. 

“Deacon tell you that?” The Courier acted on her hunch.

Emotion washed over Charmer like the waves in the distance. She turned around again. Her knees buckled, body bent over the rail. It was answer enough for the Courier.

She took the vacated chair and sat in it sideways with her legs thrown over the arm of it. Maybe by remaining casual, she could give Charmer some sense of stability. The Courier was shit at comfort. “He’s right. It’s your choice. Should always be your choice.”

“I don’t want it to be.” Charmer murmured. She sounded like she was going to be sick. “I can’t make this one.” She hadn’t yet told the Courier to leave. That much was reassuring.

“It’s a terrible thing.” The Courier agreed, trying to keep the pain out of her own voice and failing. “But if you act for something - someone - else? You can’t live with the consequences.” 

Charmer picked up on the crack in her voice and dragged her gaze back to the Courier.

A heartbeat.

“... you know.” Charmer breathed her realization. “You know what it’s like.”

The Courier smiled sadly at her. “Yeah. Which is why I don’t care if you decide you don’t want to go back. Go your own way, if that’s best. But for now - the present, that is - I’m going to stick around. I don’t know what happened to you. Don’t know why you’re not dead. Doesn’t matter. I’ve never been good at fancy words, or had much luck - but I’ve always been able to read people.” Charmer seemed to agree, judging by the look on her face. “It’s not good to be alone at times like this. When you’re done looking at the sea, I’ll leave.”

The implication hung in the air, without judgement. 

Charmer slid down the railing, letting herself sit on the deck. Her legs dangled off of it, between banisters. “Okay.”

“I’ve got water and nuka-cola, if you want it.” The Courier offered, keeping a careful eye on her new charge. It was a strange role to play. Watching over a woman older than she was. If Glory’s story was true, watching over a woman _ centuries _ older than she was.

Charmer shook her head. “It’s alright. Thank you.” A pause. “Can you tell me more about Vegas?”

A low chuckle. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

\--

They spoke through the night huddled under the deck awning, with an oil lantern between them to give some light. If the Courier had doubts as to whether or not Charmer was actually pre-War, they were wiped clean after their conversations. 

By their meeting two worlds and two centuries were connected. The Courier spoke at length of the various tribes that had settled, what had become of the old sprawling casinos, how neon lights still glimmered in the sky. Then she spoke of the horrors, the Legion, the Divide, the Sierra Madre. Always, Charmer had a question - caught up on some detail, asking about some landmark. 

Sometimes Charmer would return a story with one of her own - describing McCarran back in the day, slot machine sounds mixed with jet engines. How New Vegas was a glorious escape from impending doom, intent on going out with style. She scoffed when asked about Mr. House, back then - muttered something about billionaire eccentric being another word for narcissist. 

“Why were you in the Mojave?” The Courier asked, an hour before dawn.

Charmer was quiet and contemplative in the moments that passed before her answer. “It was my honeymoon.” she admitted quietly. “Why did you leave?”

It was the Courier’s turn to fall into silence. She decided to answer truthfully. Charmer had admitted to an old pain - an eye for an eye was only just. “Was tired of waiting for a man to love me. Not to mention my fuck-ups were piling up.” The Courier grimaced, tempted to paw at her pocket for another cigarette. The pain didn’t sting as much as it used to - each time she spoke the truth, its weight lifted from her more and more. The shame had abated. In its place was a duller pain, stretched out longer. A pining. Maybe it was just the conversations of home. Or maybe it was her finally putting the emotion that had driven her away to rest.

Charmer stared and gave a small whimper of sympathy. She looked troubled. The Courier filed that away for later. 

Between the two of them it was the oddest sort of nostalgia. Both speaking tales of a place they’d once been, as if both years were one and the same. As if they’d lived there together. It was a comforting thought. 

Charmer seemed to feel the same. Her posture had relaxed by a few degrees since they began talking, the caginess in her eyes settling into resolution. The sky had begun to lighten into the blue of pre-dawn when at last Charmer stood.

“I think I’m ready.”

The Courier hauled herself to her feet. “Where to?”

Charmer took a deep breath. “Boston.” she exhaled, as if she’d only just settled on her answer. “Going back.”

A soft smile made its way onto the Courier’s features. Another good deed. Another one of her sins counterbalanced. “You need an escort? Only since I think Glory might actually kill you when she sees you.”

Charmer looked alarmed. “Is she that angry?”

“No. Said she missed you, which from what little I know of her seems to be a pretty rare thing.” The Courier shrugged. “And from what little I know of how Glory likes to deal with things? You’re going to get hit by the full force of it.”

“Death by relief. I can deal with that.” Charmer slung her near-empty pack back over her shoulder. “It’s not Glory I’m worried about.”

There it was again. Sentences spoken with more weight than the rest, contextless to the Courier. She didn’t chase it. “What I’m asking is - you mind a travelling partner? Just until we get to Boston. I’m pretty sure we’re going different ways after that.”

“I-” Charmer began, then thought better of it. “Okay. I’ll owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The Courier paused, reconsidering. “One small favor, if you can. You see a synth patrol in the area?”

The way Charmer’s face paled didn’t go unnoticed. “... yeah. Part of what I have to tell the boss.” She turned and walked down the deck steps, starting on her way down the embankment.

Boss. The Courier supposed it made sense that Charmer was one of the highly ranked people, given her affiliation with Deacon. It was odd to think of the shorter woman at her side as someone who outranked her. Come to think, though, she wasn’t certain if the Railroad even _ had _ ranks.   
  
She jogged to catch up with Charmer. “Then I’ll put that in my report.” The Courier panted. 

If saving Danse wasn’t enough to make an impression, seeing Charmer return from the dead certainly should have been. 

In the end, the Courier couldn’t help herself.

As much as she told herself she didn’t do causes, in the end they were all that kept her going.


	25. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope returns.

Sleep tugged at his eyelids.

Deacon had spent the last several hours penned up in PAM’s chamber listening to endless debate. At first, it was Glory arguing for a promotion for the Courier due to her exceptional performance. Desdemona was skeptical, Carrington was staunchly against it, and Deacon was all for it save a few reservations. That debate had led into a fiercer and more long-running one, however: what exactly they were to do with the synth the Courier and Glory picked up. 

Paladin Danse, as he went, was a unique situation for the Railroad. He hadn’t escaped the Institute and come running for help. He was still vouching for the Brotherhood - and still refused to tell them anything that might jeopardize the Brotherhood’s position. Still - he had come willingly and was transparent about everything else.

Which made the debate heated. Carrington leaned toward the man being a Brotherhood plant. Desdemona considered the idea of convincing the man to get a memory wipe. Glory wanted to keep the man under quarantine until the Brotherhood had been dealt with. Deacon kept his mouth shut in this regard. Part of him agreed with Desdemona, but when he put himself in Danse’s shoes he had to admit that while he’d be happier without his previous memories, he wouldn’t give them up for the world.

So the argument dragged on. In HQ, time had a nebulous quality. They didn’t see the sun underground, and agents had varying schedules. There was always  _ some _ sort of activity. It didn’t help Deacon’s insomnia, but listening to Desdemona and Carrington argue in circles was proving to be a powerful antidote.

He felt himself leaning back in his chair, feet slipping further along the floor. He was looking forward to the first few hours of sleep that had found him in days, when a woman’s shout in the distance pulled the entire room to rapt attention.

It was the first sign. Deacon had been through enough safehouses burning to know. It always seemed to happen at the laziest times, the quietest times - as if the calm attracted the greatest chaos. In the split second after realizing the noise had happened, he wondered how they all were going to die. Who was going to make it out this time.

Glory’s minigun was in the armory, but she had her sidearm drawn in seconds. Deacon and Desdemona had followed suit. Carrington moved to start unhooking PAM from the consoles she was uploading to, the most precious possession the Railroad had.

There was no follow up. No laser fire, no explosions. Instead there was a soft buzz of chatter trailing in from the main room. Hasty footsteps approached.

Drummer Boy stuck his head in through the door, face red and breathless. “Charmer’s back.” he panted.

The rest of them stared, speechless. A wave of vertigo hit Deacon.

“She’s back.” Drummer Boy repeated, glancing back at the main chamber to double check he hadn’t been hallucinating. “I’m serious-”

Glory had holstered her sidearm and taken off running, cutting Drummer Boy short by nearly barrelling him over. Dez and Carrington exchanged worried glances before following suit. Deacon stood rooted to the spot.

He must have fallen asleep in his chair, and now his mind was taunting him. Or maybe he’d finally, truly lost it. He willed himself to awaken.

Nothing happened.

“Deacon?” Drummer Boy’s excitement was tempered with confusion.

It was going to be one of those dreams. He couldn’t just wake up. He’d have to see it through to the end, however horrifying it might be.

Deacon stood and slowly walked into the main chamber. There was a swarm of activity near the back entrance, cheers and exclamations of shock. 

“I  _ told _ you it worked, Dez! I knew the molecular stabilization matrix would hold!” Tinker Tom whooped as the group of agents parted to let a figure through.

A ghost.

Charmer stood, just as she had in his fevered imaginings before everything went wrong. This time, though, she wasn’t so radiant - wasn’t the confident figure he remembered. Her smile was weak. Her eyes were tired. She hadn’t been like this since the first time she met him.

Something about the dream was wrong.

She stopped mid step when her eyes fell upon him. He saw her chest rise from across the room, saw her hold the intake of breath. A shot didn’t ring out. A blade didn’t burst through her. Charmer did not combust, nor did she bleed. She merely stood, staring.

This wasn’t a dream.

Madness, then.

Deacon took one slow step forward. Then another. Like a lightning bolt the urge - no, the  _ need _ to close the distance struck him. It felt as if they were the only two in the room as he crossed it. If he didn’t touch her he felt he’d perish.

Glory beat him to it.

The spell was broken with Charmer’s eye contact, as she was quite nearly tackled by the other woman. She let out a happy - if pained - wheeze, the synth woman squeezing her to near breaking point with her hug.

“You absolute  _ fucker _ .” Glory’s voice was muffled against Charmer’s jacket, but Deacon had drawn close enough to hear it. She at last released her, giving the smaller woman a punch in the arm. “I’m going to  _ kill  _ you.”

“Missed you too, Glory.” Charmer returned, smile genuine if shaky.   
  
“Give her some air, Glory.” Desdemona called from the other side of the room. She and Carrington stood near the planning table, waiting for Charmer to approach them. She paid them no mind - now, she had only eyes for Deacon.

This was real. 

Deacon struggled to keep it together. Charmer’s eyes were near deadened save for traces of dread and desperation. But she was still there, standing in front of him. As if she was just as relieved to see him as he was to see her - as if somehow his presence was a breath of life as hers was for him.

He walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She was solid. Warm. Alive. Not a ghost, not a dream. A second chance. He grappled with the right words to say - there were so many words he had wanted to say, had imagined saying when he thought all was lost. None of them could be spoken in HQ, surrounded by fellow agents. “Knew you’d make it.” He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not when she looked at him that way, not when she seemed like she could fall to dust in his hands. 

“You helped.” she murmured, quiet enough that only he could hear. 

It was impossible to look at her face any longer. A fire was raging inside of him, burning, cleansing. The pain radiated outward. Looking at her now was like looking at the sun. Every burst of feeling he'd tried to hide from was returning to him and his masks had gone up in flames at the sight of her.

So he stepped behind her and placed a hand on her other shoulder. He gave her a gentle push towards Dez and Carrington. It got her walking.

He followed behind as the three returned to PAM’s chamber. By now the Railroad’s leaders had given up trying to chase him off from such talks. Even if what was discussed went above his pay grade, his insight more than paid it back.

Carrington pulled a chair out in front of the desk and gestured for Charmer to sit. She looked small, with the rest of them standing over her. Deacon moved to take a seat himself, but Desdemona raised a hand to halt him.

“You’ve been gone a month.” Desdemona began, voice devoid of emotion. Professional. It was the tone she took for disciplinary actions. “We give two weeks grace before declaring an agent M.I.A.”

“Which means quarantine.” Carrington continued. “Until we can ensure you are who you say you are.”

Charmer said nothing and sat in silence. Carrington’s expression was one of dull surprise. He must have been expecting an argument.

The Railroad couldn’t afford quarantine. Deacon knew it was her, knew that with her returned so came their hopes. More importantly, however, he didn’t know if she could stand it. Whatever she’d seen on the other side of the relay had visibly damaged her.

“You said so yourself - we don’t have time.” Deacon cut in sharply. Carrington knew it, knew that the very discovery that had brought Danse to their doorstep had also put the Brotherhood far ahead of them. 

“We cannot let our security lapse, no matter how late the hour. I would think you’d understand, seeing as how you were who initially proposed our procedures.” Carrington replied as cooly as he could, but in the way he did when he was trying to get a barb in before ceding ground. “We can’t just let her back into the fold.”

Deacon tried to look at her again. It was a dangerous thing - as if the very sight of her returned every emotion he’d felt in her absence threefold. Charmer stared at her hands; clasped in front of her, white knuckled. He’d seen those hands fiddling with old contraptions, watched her fingers stroke Dogmeat’s fur. Dreamt of clasping them, cradling them between his own.

“No, we can’t.” Desdemona agreed, only half managing to drag Deacon’s attention back to the present. “Fortunately, we have the best candidate to vet her.”

Carrington suppressed a sneer.

“Deacon.” Dez temporarily jerked him out of his haze. “You know Charmer best.”

Charmer raised her eyes from her hands back to him. It felt like she was burning him. The Institute couldn’t replicate that. They couldn’t even begin to attempt to create her. The little hunch in her shoulders from carrying an overloaded pack despite his attempts to discourage her. The way her eyes travelled when she studied him, peering at his brow, then his mouth, then his hands. A sign she had an inkling of his tells, rare and subtle as they were. A brain scan couldn’t bring that back.

None of these things were something he could voice. At least, they weren’t anything that Dez and Carrington would believe. Deacon cleared his throat and expended every last bit of exhausted energy he had holding himself together.

“Where did I tell you we were after we picked up the Cryolator?” The questions would have to hurt. It was the only way to truly be sure. The answers could be faked, maybe, but the reactions - the emotions - those were irreplaceable.

Charmer’s hands started to shake. “Goodneighbor.” she answered thickly. Dez and Carrington eyed him with skepticism.

“What did we do, the night before Augusta?” Deacon continued. Dez’s expression darkened slightly.

The question caused a slight flinch. “Watched a holotape.” Even in her current state, even here, she kept her answers tactful.

It hurt him as much as it did her. The half-truths never stopped. If she wanted anything to do with him anymore, he’d make it up to her a hundredfold.

“What did I say last?”

Charmer’s eyes were pleading with him. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut. This question had hit a nerve, it was clear - and more and more, he was dreading hearing just what had happened to her. 

“That I had to make a choice. To do what I thought was right.” She spoke like her jaw threatened to clamp shut with every word.

Deacon looked over to Dez, sweet relief from Charmer’s blinding visage. “It’s her. Swear on my life.”

The Railroad’s leader visibly relaxed. Even Carrington looked relieved, in his own way.

“Thank god.” Dez murmured, suddenly looking ten years younger. “There’s still some hope left in the world.” She smiled. “We need every scrap of intel you got from there. PAM, this is important. ”

It was almost easy to forget the robot in the back of the room, lurking in shadow and attached to the consoles by numerous wires. PAM turned her head and tilted it by a calculated degree. “Analyzing.” 

Charmer ran her hand over her face. “Can I get a drink?” she asked, near pleaded. Carrington grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka on the desk and passed it to her. A moving offer, from him.

She took a swig. Her face didn’t contort in disgust. Another. That drew forth a shudder.

Dez took the bottle back. “Start from the beginning. Take your time.”

Charmer looked like she was facing her execution. “The signal interceptor worked. I managed to get to a terminal and upload the code. Made contact with PATRIOT. He’s the son of one of the scientists. Wants to get a couple dozen out next time.” Her voice started steady, but began to quiver as her story went on. “Didn’t meet with any resistance. Just had to pretend I supported them.” From her tone, it sounded like a gargantuan task.

Desdemona paled. “Were they expecting you?” she asked lowly, likely already planning for an evacuation.

Charmer held her hand out for the bottle again. Dez let her have it. Another drink. “Yes and no.” she breathed after swallowing. “They didn’t expect me to come in the way I did. But they were waiting for me to arrive.”

A person like her? Of course they’d be waiting. He hadn’t lied when he told her that anyone who had her in their corner had the advantage on the playing field. It was no surprise that even the Institute had taken note.

That wasn’t it, though. Not when he steeled himself to look at her face again. There was a hatred there, turned inward. A hate he lived in, immersed himself in. Seeing it residing in her made the edges of his vision tint red, ignited a bloodthirst in him to remove its cause.

It took a few moments for Charmer to gain the courage to continue. Dez and Carrington let her have them, expressions slack.

“I found my son.” She whispered. “It wasn’t ten years. It was sixty. He’s the head of the Institute. He was trying to get me to come, he wants me to join them. My  _ son _ .”

It was spoken blasphemy. Paralysis set into his limbs. He couldn’t tear her eyes off of her now that she had confessed. This was what had broken her. What the Courier had warned of. The fate of everyone who tried to change the world, who tried to do good - reality crashing into them like a warhead, leaving only shards in its wake. After all of her struggle, after watching her husband die in front of her eyes. She'd walked to the Glowing Sea and back. They'd killed a Courser together. Done their best for an organization that gave synths hope - and now, in a terrible joke, the great reveal had been unveiled. Her son wasn't PATRIOT, wasn't a child. He was everything they fought against. The very thing that had brought the world to destruction the first time around.

Desdemona and Carrington were similarly speechless. Charmer buried her face in her hands. The silence was suffocating. Deacon was being smothered by his own horror.

“Charms.” he broke the silence, her codename spoken like a prayer. It flowed over her, let her hands drop limply back into her lap.

It revived Desdemona. “Shit.” she muttered. ”I’m sorry.”

Carrington’s silence was a calculating one. “This is what we need.” he said suddenly, his eyes bright. “If you gain their trust, we can play this to our advantage.”

“I hate to ask this of you." Dez sighed. "But Carrington’s right.” She knelt in front of Charmer, as if it would make the request go down any easier. “We need someone on the inside. Can you do this for us?”

Charmer closed her eyes and nodded. Dez patted her knee before she stood.

“Good. Enter in a full report on what PATRIOT told you on PAM’s terminal so that she can get to work on figuring out how we can get PATRIOT what he needs. In the meantime - I’m sure everyone else wants to talk with you.” 

Charmer stood and dragged her chair over to PAM’s terminal, thankful for the offered exit. Carrington looked as if he was about to say something more, but Desdemona waved him over.

“Doctor. We aren’t done.” 

The two left the room, to have yet another debate that Deacon wanted no part in. He hadn’t moved from where he stood throughout the whole conversation. PAM’s chamber was now silent, save for the gentle whirring of the terminal and the clicks of Charmer’s fingers on the keys.

Deacon approached her. She was typing more slowly than usual. He reached out to touch her shoulder again. Charmer stopped typing. He leaned over ever-so-slightly, speaking so only she could hear.

“I can get you out of here. Somewhere quiet. Where do you want to go?”

Charmer hit enter on her report. PAM’s mechanical noises picked up as she started to run calculations. Distracted. He felt Charmer's fingers brush against his on her shoulder for the briefest moment.

“Home.”

By the way she looked at him, he knew exactly where she meant.


	26. Buzzing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier remembers what happiness is.

The Courier collapsed onto her mattress at Mercer mere moments after she arrived and had passed out in seconds. Glory had told her to get some rest and wait until she returned, and the Courier was all too happy to oblige.

Her sleep was peaceful. Shadows floated to and fro, faint silhouettes - but this time they radiated warmth. Traces of laughter played through her mind, echoes of happier times. 

She awoke just as one of the silhouettes took a more solid shape - a certain man’s rare smile.

A hand was shaking her arm gently. It was midday. She’d only slept a few hours. The Courier squinted, a shaft of light beaming in through the window and granting a halo around the head of the person who’d awoken her.

Warm dark eyes, crinkled with joy. Painted lips in a wide smile.  _ Glory. _

“Cut the beauty sleep.” The synth chirped. “I got you an invite to HQ.”

The Courier smiled sleepily. She stretched, feet entangled in the blankets. “Could it wait?” she mumbled into her pillow and closed her eyes again.

Glory sighed. A weight settled on her mattress, the springs creaking to signal that her partner had sat down on it. Her back rested against the Courier’s thigh. “HQ has beds too, you know.”

“I’m not going to make a good impression if I’m dead on my feet.” The Courier answered, slipping her hands under the pillow. 

“Your reputation will precede you.” Glory chuckled affectionately. “Fine, be a brat.”

A weight settled on the Courier’s legs. She peeked an eye open to see that Glory had laid across them. A protective wall. 

Sleep reclaimed her. This time, it was dreamless.

\--

The rumbling of Glory’s stomach awoke her. The Courier lifted her head and brushed the hair out of her eyes. It was near sunset, judging by the angle of the light shining through the window. Glory was fast asleep, one arm curled around the Courier’s calf.

She moved it and nudged her partner. Glory muttered something. Her stomach growled again. That was enough to get her to wake up.

“Hungry.” Glory rubbed at her eyes after sitting up.

“I could hear.” The Courier replied, smoothing out her hair and placing her beret back on her head. “I stashed some Fancy Lads behind the fridge in the mess hall.”

“Fuck yeah.” Glory hastily tugged on her boots. “I heard they got some brahmin meat in. I’ll kill someone for some steak.” Suddenly she stiffened. “ _ Shit. _ I tried waking you up for a reason.”

A moment of fear struck the Courier. “What’s wrong?”

That made Glory chuckle. “What’s wrong? What’s  _ right _ , more like. Fucking Charmer came back from the dead.” The lack of surprise on the Courier's face didn’t go unnoticed. “... wait. How-”

“Met up with her on my way back.” The Courier shrugged. A half-truth, but no one had to know. “Did you know she went to Vegas before the war? I think she’s the only person who believed me off the bat.”

“Christ. Don’t tell me you spent hours fawning over how great things were before the war.” Glory frowned. 

The Courier put on a show of mock offense. “What makes you think I’m the type? Nah. Bitched about a few things.”

“Ah, bitching. The great unifier.” The synth pushed herself to her feet and held a hand out for the Courier to pull her up beside her.

“Some things never change.” She held onto Glory’s hand a little longer than necessary. “Let’s get some food before your stomach deafens us.”

\--

They ended up getting sidetracked. The Courier had haggled with Mercer’s resident cook to get Glory a frankly obscenely large brahmin steak, and the two women took their food to the rec room. They sat across from each other on one of the couches, legs resting on each other, and ate. 

Soon what was meant to be a quick meal became a visit with familiar agents - Drummer Boy poked his head in at some point in the evening. Word of Charmer’s return hit Mercer, and soon the rec room was overtaken with celebration. The people here were desperately in need of a morale kick, and they’d received just that. Beers were passed around, jokes told, laughter rang out. Glory cranked the radio as  _ Butcher Pete _ started playing and dragged the Courier off the couch to dance.

It was like her return to Vegas after Caesar’s death. Bloodied and bruised, she still celebrated, was still spun around on her feet by drunken soldiers. She’d turned her head to look over her shoulder at Boone, and caught him smiling - if grimly.

Glory squeezed her waist, and she was back in the Commonwealth. “You didn’t tell me you could dance!” 

“You think I’m dancing?” The Courier laughed. She was just trying to keep in step with Glory’s quick and energetic movements. The entire room was buzzing, people jostling into the two of them as they circled around in time with the beat.

Glory bumped her hip against her playfully. “Don’t give me that. There anything you can’t do, Courier?”

“Sing.”

“Fuck that!” Her partner shouted, as  _ The Wanderer _ ’s opening bars started on the radio. Glory spun her and shouted along with the lyrics, soon joined by the rest of the party. “Doesn’t matter if you’re on key, just be loud.” she snickered into the Courier’s ear.

Glory had a habit of giving her goosebumps.

As the two spun again, the Courier caught sight of a familiar face weaving quickly through the crowd. She elbowed Glory, and they came to a stop.

Deacon and Charmer were slipping between the celebrating agents, unnoticed in the drunken reverie. Glory whistled lowly and leaned in so close to the Courier that their bodies touched.

“You know, we do have rules against fraternization.” she admitted with a healthy dose of mischief. “How much blackmail do you think I can get out of this?”

“Don’t be cruel.” The Courier scolded. Glory only laughed.

“He’d do the same. Asshole. Good for him, thought he’d gone full robot. I’m allowed to say that.” It was affectionately said. Glory placed a hand to the Courier’s chin, gently nudging her head to look back at her. The synth’s tone grew serious, the kind of gravity that came with being mildly drunk. “I’m glad she’s back. Means we have a bigger chance of winning this. A fighting chance, I think. So - I’m going to ask you something, Courier.”

Glory’s painted lips were mesmerizing. The alcohol buzzing in the Courier’s brain made it feel like her fingers were tingling. “Yeah?” she asked, dumbly.

“If we end up taking out the Institute, freeing my brothers and sisters - won’t be any need for the Railroad anymore.” Glory mused. “Which means those rules that Deacon’s probably breaking won’t need to exist anymore.”

The Courier was dumbfounded. “Are you-”

“Asking you out?” Sheepishness wasn’t an emotion Glory could feel. Even now, she radiated confidence. “If the answer’s yes, I am. Once we see the Institute burning. Combat Zone, then the Third Rail. Sound like a date?”

An odd fluttering had taken root in the Courier’s ribcage. “Yeah.” Her vocabulary was failing her. This wasn’t something she’d expected at all when she’d begun her journey - and she still didn’t know if it was something that would end well. But she’d take the chance. 

If there was one thing the wastes had taught her, it was to take chances when they came, speak honestly where she could. There wasn’t any time to waste.

Glory beamed from ear to ear. “I’d kiss you to seal the deal, but people’ll talk if they see my lipstick on you.”

The Courier pressed her lips against Glory’s cheek in answer. 

“That works.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big ol' fluffbomb twofer. We're starting to get into the home stretch now! As always thank you guys so much for keeping me company on this. <3


	27. All We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confessor confesses.

Deacon put his talents to use in a way that, while small, felt like it trumped every time he’d slipped past a super mutant patrol. 

He managed to get Charmer out of HQ unseen. Away from questions and curious eyes. Returning from the dead and being the only person known to infiltrate the Institute had made her a bona fide celebrity - but the attention that came with it was dangerous. For now, at least. He burned his stealth boys getting her out - a paltry cost for what was gained.

Somehow she kept her composure, even when they entered the escape tunnel and were free at last from view and judgement. Deacon didn’t know if that was a good sign or not - then again, he supposed in the time they’d suspected her dead she’d come to terms with her new, grim reality.

Admitting it to anyone else, though? That took its toll. He couldn’t imagine what it took out of her to tell the truth. If they were like the Brotherhood, they’d have had her executed for her relation. As it was, the Railroad’s desperation was the only reason she hadn’t been thrown into quarantine. At least they hadn’t rejected her. 

Deacon nudged the back door open, and they stepped out into the sunlight. They trudged up the pile of rubble and hopped down onto the sidewalk by the riverside, as they had a thousand times.

Everything was different now, though. Charmer was a changed woman, and a war was raging in Deacon’s mind. Pain for her, an urge to soothe her wounds, mixed with an incandescent happiness at the miracle that was her return. Guilt and hatred for his selfishness - and the knowledge that one of his last actions before she left was to add a final crack to her armor. Armor she’d need so terribly to weather what was before her.

Charmer seemed to be aware of this. She kept her eyes straight ahead and started walking west in silence. Part of him thought it’d be best to let her go ahead on her own, to let her breathe - but she’d be swamped in seconds the moment she passed through Mercer’s gate. He’d get her to the apartment, then he’d take his leave.

The sun had begun to descend. They’d make it to Mercer by nightfall.

\--

They journeyed in silence. This time, he couldn’t mind it - he drank in the sight of her freely, devoured the sight of the mannerisms that were so uniquely  _ her _ that he’d never thought to see again. Her hesitance before jumping down from a pile of debris. The way she always walked on the right side of the street. How she still, even now, paused to look at a crumbling building as if she knew its story.

When they could see the faint lights of Diamond City a few blocks away, signalling their nearness to Mercer, Charmer spoke at last. “What way?”

“Maintenance tunnel.” Deacon instructed. “That’ll get us into the basement, so all we’ll have to do is get through the rec room to the other staircase.” They were setting a plan of attack again. Partners again - if only for a moment. Charmer could hate him for the rest of her days - so long as her days were long, he’d be happy. Things had been set into a perspective so clear it would have terrified him a few months ago.

Now? He knew a terror even worse. It was strange, how things worked that way - past misery proven to be happiness after all, when the present became so much more terrible.

He wondered if Charmer felt the same way, as they climbed down an open grate in the sidewalk and started their way through the tunnel system that connected to Mercer’s basements. What was better? A son and husband dead, gone with the rest of her world? A son disappeared, never to be seen again, an eternal what-if? Or a son alive but with decades lost to her, raised by strangers, embodying everything she stood against?

It wasn’t his place to ask. Instead he simply watched her back through damp gloom of the tunnels, doing his best not to fall into distraction. They weren’t the only ones who used these paths.

Thankfully, they found the ladder that led up to the basement of Mercer’s largest apartment building - the one they’d settled into, what felt like years ago. Deacon grabbed Charmer by the waist and boosted her up, the first step a couple feet too far off the ground for her to reach easily. He didn’t want to let go.

They could hear riotous laughter when they crawled out into the basement. It echoed against the rows of rusting washing machines. Charmer looked puzzled, watching dust fall from the ceiling with heavy footfalls signalling dancing above.

“They’ve got reason to celebrate.” Deacon broke the silence, unable to keep himself from smiling at her. “The mayor’s back. You’d give Hancock a run for his money in the polls, you know.” He sank into joking with her again like he would a warm bath. It was a relief.

Charmer gritted her teeth and cast her gaze to her feet. He saw her hands ball into fists. “They don’t know.” she murmured. 

Deacon shook his head. “They’d do the same if they did.” The words were spoken softly, for her ears only. “You were missed.”

It got her to glance back up at him. He wanted to press his forehead to hers, to see her eyes in the detail he’d only dreamed of. Now he was more dangerous than ever, a hound set loose. His mind was only barely keeping up with his emotions, kept just barely to heel by the knowledge that even if Charmer didn’t hate him, any action on his part would end in tears. She had something so much greater on her plate.

He let his pack drop from his shoulders and flipped the canvas cover, digging around for what would get them through the party above unseen. Charmer watched in silence as he pulled out what he was looking for. A scarf for her, a hooded jacket and toque for him.

Deacon passed her the scarf and made a motion that resembled tying it around his head. Charmer quickly fastened it over her hair, looking distinctly like one of those old Rosie the Riveter posters. Deacon tugged the toque over his head, wincing as the stubble on his scalp scratched against the wool. The jacket was a little large on him now - he’d gone a bad streak without eating - but it served to make him look more diminutive. He observed his handiwork, just as he had when the two of them were at their height.

As before, Charmer always looked a little too clean. Even now, with dark circles under her eyes and a pale complexion, she was far from ordinary. Deacon ran his hand along the top of one of the old washing machines and placed it to the side of her face.

He let his fingers trail downward more slowly than he meant to - he’d forgotten how soft her skin was. Charmer stiffened. There was a tremble in her lower lip. He swallowed and smeared the dust across her face in a rougher motion, changing her expression of shock to one of annoyance. It was almost as if they were in the ruined building outside Diamond City again, near strangers - dirt smeared across her face as she underwent his final test.

Deja vu was always such a motherfucker.

“Okay.” Deacon spoke quickly, unwilling to stay a moment longer. “Head down, don’t look anyone in the eye. Turn your body so no one gets a good angle of your face for too long. If anyone stops us, I’ll say some shit about official business and try to run interference.” He knew how much the underground unsettled her. The sooner they reached home, the better.

_ Home. _ At last he could admit it - that for the first time in decades, he’d finally slipped up and grown attached to a place. 

Maybe it wasn’t the place, though.

Maybe home was the woman before him.

Charmer only nodded in acknowledgement. He inhaled sharply, mentally slapping himself. “Let’s go.”

As they climbed the stairs, the noise above grew louder. Snatches of music could be heard, nearly drowned out by the shouting and cheers. A liquor bottle lay smashed at the top of the stairs, filling the area with the sharp smell of alcohol.

The rec room looked like the Third Rail after a liquor haul. People were dancing and stumbling about. The pool table had been co-opted for beer pong. Empty bottles of liquor and beer were lined up along the walls and windowsills. An arm wrestling competition had begun at one of the card tables, a drinking contest was underway at the tiny counter that served as a makeshift bar. Someone got too excited and fired their pistol into the air, only to be swiftly dragged out of the building.

The drunken reverie of the crowd was a boon. Deacon forged a path for Charmer to follow, darting and weaving between dancing bodies. He caught a glance of a red beret and long dark hair, being spun around by a dance partner. Immediately he dipped his head down and tried to stay hunched. His height was one of the few things he couldn’t change, and if he wasn’t careful it’d make him a clear mark in a crowd. The last thing he needed was the Courier’s suspicion.

By some miracle, they crossed the length of the rec room and made it to the stairwell unaccosted. Climbing the flights of stairs to the top level felt easy, now. His steps were feather light. He was drunk on the wonder of Charmer’s presence.

The euphoria settled when they’d reached the top landing at last. With the sounds of revelry below muted by six floors, reality crept back in. His mission was complete - he’d guided her to sanctuary. Here he’d leave her.

Deacon dug his key ring out of his pockets and unlocked the apartment. He gave the door a gentle push and looked over at Charmer. Her eyes were shining. With safety so close, her composure was now starting to crack.

The floorboards creaked as she stepped slowly into the place they’d made their own. Her fingers started working on removing the scarf from her head. Deacon lingered in the doorway, watching her shake her hair free and take a deep breath.

Charmer noticed his absence. She twisted to look at him, barely visible in the darkness of the room.

“I can stay if you want me to.” Deacon spoke like it was a reflex, an automatic response. In the past, he’d grimace - but now? It didn’t matter. 

“Do you want to?” she asked quietly. “I know you don’t like it.”

Deacon answered by stepping across the threshold and shutting the door behind him. Before Charmer could speak, he grabbed a pack of matches from the counter and lit the oil lantern sitting in the window. He could hear Charmer lock the apartment door.

He felt lightheaded and tried to counteract it by keeping his hands busy. Another match was struck, and he tended to the various candles scattered about, chasing away the darkness.

“I meant to thank you back in HQ.” Charmer began, while his back was turned to her. Her footsteps were heavy enough for him to know she moved to the bed. The groan of the bedframe was a confirmation. “When I was… on the inside, thinking of what you taught me - it’s all that got me through.”

The candles were lit, their surroundings now cast into view. There were imprints in the dust on the floor from the books he had thrown. Remnants of dust still remained on them, now haphazardly stacked in the cabinet, hurriedly replaced before he left the apartment for what he thought was the final time. Charmer didn’t seem to mind the dust, now that he could see her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him, staring at the wall. Somewhere else entirely.

“You didn’t need my help, pal.” Deacon tried to remind himself of the situation, bring what their relationship should be into focus. Friends. Partners. Anything less than that was an impossibility, however much Desdemona might try to discourage it. Anything more, and… Charmer deserved better. 

A beat of silence. “I was angry at you, at first. After Augusta. But you were right.” Her tone was dangerously flat. She’d tugged a mask of her own on, now - the two of them had exchanged places. “Shaun wanted me to join him, and for… for just a moment, I wanted to. He made - he made a synth  _ child _ . Looked just like him. H-he meant to use the kid to convince me, and it almost worked.” Her whole body shuddered. “I almost bought into it. A  _ child _ , treated like an object, a bargaining chip for my loyalty. You were right not to trust me.”

Confession. Deacon walked over to the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed and sat down. He stared at her back, watched her shoulders move as she breathed. Slow. They didn’t need a wooden panel between them for him to hear her sins. 

“I’m in your corner. Always have been.” He swallowed and looked down at his hands. “Charms. I lied. It’s all I fucking know how to do. I thought it’d make things safer - you’re the best thing that’s happened to the Commonwealth, it seemed a small price to pay. We’re supposed to keep our distance, but when... you didn’t come back…” Deacon clasped his hands together, keeping them secure. “Wasn’t worth it. Didn’t save you.”

Charmer let her head fall to the side, looking at him in her periphery. Candlelight danced across her cheeks. They shone with tears. “I don’t deserve it. Everything terrible that’s happened in the Commonwealth, the pain, the suffering - it’s my fault. My son’s fault. They built Gen 3s because of him. Because of my DNA, untouched. Because I signed us up for the Vault, because I thought we could outrun fate. Nate couldn’t.” Her breath shook as she inhaled. “If we’d just gone to the park, none of this would have happened.”

Her words felt like a noose around his neck. It pulled at him. Deacon stood abruptly, at her side in a heartbeat. He dropped to his knees in front of her and ripped his sunglasses from his face, looking at her eye to eye. The sight jolted her back a few steps, away from the ledge she was approaching. Deacon placed his hand over hers, resting on the mattress. She was begging forgiveness.  _ Charmer. _ The fact that she could ever feel like she was to blame for any of it - for the Institute, for the fucking war, while he sat in silence - it couldn’t stand any longer. He couldn’t lie anymore.

Deacon looked up at her. Judgement day had come. “Charms.” he breathed. “I’m a liar. It’s all I can do. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. To my core. When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was scum. A bigot. Violent. Part of a gang - the _University Point Deathclaws_” He spat the name. “It started with vandalism. Then assault. Then, when we thought we’d found a synth-” He withdrew his hand from hers at the memory, as if he could poison her. “-a lynching.”

He could see the hate leeching away from her eyes. The hard set of her jaw softened, a small crease formed between her brows. Confusion had pulled her from her spiral. “Deacon, why-”

“It’s called a confession. Good for the soul, or something.” he muttered. “I couldn’t get over it. Turned my back on my brothers, left for somewhere else. Anywhere else. Couple of years, and I was a farmer, if you can believe it. Then I found someone.”

It had been decades. Half a century, maybe. Memory unspoken. Now given life at last, blooming in with every word - foggy with time. Charmer was silent, though the crease in her brow deepened.

“She saw something in me I didn’t know.” The part of him that went dormant, that ignited in full force with Charmer’s presence. Hope. “Barbara, she was… she just…” He couldn’t remember what her face looked like anymore. Couldn’t remember her voice. Fuck, he’d tried, tried to keep it close however much it stung, but one day he’d found it was gone. “... was. She had a smile like one of those old magazine covers.” Charmer’s was the same - was what had dredged forth the scrap of memory. He’d hated himself for it, the first time he’d noticed. “Her eyes-”

Deacon dipped his head, looking away from her - but stopped mid sentence when he felt fingers trace along his jaw. Guiding his face back up. Charmer’s face was undecipherable, but he’d be granted no cowardice. Her hand dropped back to her side.

“We were ekeing out a living. Trying for kids.” The impossible dream. It made Charmer’s struggle all the more poignant, all the sharper. He heard her inhale sharply. “Then one day… turns out, my Barbara’s a synth. I didn’t know. She didn’t know. The Deathclaws knew. She was gone.” Her body swung in time with the razorgrain. Her blood fed the tree. In his nightmares, she bore Charmer’s face. “I don’t really remember what happened after. Took my revenge. Didn’t help. Railroad contacted me after. Whatever I did made an impression.”

Still, she was silent. It drew forth more and more words from him - a dam had been broken, and now the truth thundered out.

“I don’t even know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone - you, Tom, Dez, even fucking Carrington - you deserve to be here. I don’t.  _ I’m _ what’s wrong with the entire fucking Commonwealth, Charms. Not you. Never you. You’re the only…” His words caught in his throat. His eyes were stinging from withheld tears. “... you’re the only friend I’ve got. I don’t deserve it.”

The silence hung over him like an executioner’s blade. Charmer’s gaze was intense, moreso without his glasses to shield him from her. Analyzing. Looking for the lie. His stomach twisted, knowing he’d laid the groundwork for it - for her to have a trace of doubt, even here.

“What a pair we make.” Charmer murmured at last. He nearly wept - but managed to simply fall back to rest against the wall. “I don’t care if you deserve it. As long as you want me, I’m here.” He stared up at her in awe. After everything - all the bullshit, all the lies - she was  _ smiling  _ at him. Sad as her eyes may have been, it was like glimpsing divinity.

Deacon wet his lips. His mouth had gone dry. “No matter what, Charms. I’m in your corner. When shit goes down, I’m with you. To the end.”

Charmer pressed her lips together. “Dee, I… if we’re going to do what we have to, Shaun-” Her voice cracked. “- what if I can’t do it?”

“No matter what.” Deacon repeated. He found strength in his limbs again, used the bed frame for support to stand once more. He walked back to the chaise lounge and collapsed on it. He felt as if he’d run across Boston. The energy in the air was strange. Tingling. Like the atmosphere just before a storm. They couldn’t revel in it - he didn’t know when Charmer had slept last, but he knew she needed it. He moved to quell the potential humming in the silence. “If you want to pick this back up in the morning, we can - but for now you should probably get some rest. Good talk.”

The bed creaked again. Blankets rustled. 

“Deacon?” As always, Charmer had one last thing to say before sleep claimed them. He never minded - it was one last opportunity to hear her voice before consciousness faded.

“Yeah, Charms?”

“You left your glasses.” 

Deacon chuckled. “Fuck it. Don’t need them around you anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's more stuff I started writing this fic for. Hold onto your hats 'cause when it rains, it pours.


	28. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon's life grows full of nearly-theres.

The golden light of dawn filled the room when he awoke, motes of dust hanging in beams of light filtering through holes in makeshift curtains. He could hear Charmer’s slow and steady breathing behind him. 

Deacon had a good feeling. More than a good feeling. He was eager to see what the day would bring - even as he wanted to ensure this moment lasted forever. Maybe this is what he’d envisioned heaven being. Calm. Contentment. Happiness that just was.

Even then, it was impossible to shake the lurking anticipation of the other shoe dropping.

Charmer shifted in her sleep. Deacon sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before casting a look back at her. She slept the same as she always had - settled in on one side of the bed, her arms outstretched and searching for something that was not there. She hadn’t latched onto a pillow this time. Her brow twitched in her sleep, furrowed as if in deep thought. Dreaming, maybe.

They’d have to set off soon. For the moment, though, he let her sleep and started shuffling about to see if the Sugar Bombs he’d stashed were still there. He’d asked her what it was like to have them with milk back in the day, once, and earned a wistful sigh in response. Still, even as they were - the sugar content was enough to kickstart the day and then some.

The Sugar Bombs were tucked away on top of the broken fridge. Charmer awoke with a start when he started pouring a bowl.

“Sorry.” he murmured, bringing the bowl and their cleanest spoon to her in apology. She smiled at him sleepily, but it faded quickly as wakefulness took hold and she sat up.

“Thanks.” Charmer took the bowl from him. She stared at him, and for a moment he didn’t know why - until her eyes darted to his shades, still left forgotten on the floor.

Deacon knelt and picked them up. For now, though, he kept them clipped to the collar of his t-shirt. That returned the smile to Charmer’s face.

“Eat fast. Price we pay for sleeping in.” He stretched before grabbing his own bowl. A moment of hesitation - then he sat on the bed across from her. She seemed to appreciate it.

Sugar Bombs were sweet enough to make his teeth hurt. Always were. But sitting across from her in the summer dawn, eating something so emblematic of the past - it was as if he was afforded a chance to step beyond the curtain of the War. Just two people eating breakfast without a care in the world.

For now.

\--

The journey to HQ was a begrudging one - Deacon got the feeling that Charmer was just as unwilling to leave their little haven as he was. The streets of Boston were warm, at least - a gentle breeze pushing at their backs. In the height of summer, little shoots and plants had dared to poke through the rubble, offering patches of green amidst the brick and concrete. Winter was likely to kill them off, but the hardiest would stick around. Maybe in a hundred years or so there’d be trees filling the ruins.

Deacon wondered if he’d be around to see it.

They threw caution to the wind, walked so close together their shoulders nearly touched. Charmer asked him a few questions about what had happened while she was gone, and Deacon answered honestly. Chaos, mostly. The Courier’s recruitment was the one shining beacon of optimism. 

“You were the one to find her?” Charmer tilted her head, frowning nervously. She was illuminated in the morning light, squinting as they travelled east.

Deacon had contemplated putting his shades back on to shield his eyes from the direct sunlight, but looking at her without obfuscation was fast proving intoxicating. He blinked at her, the implication of her words hitting him. “You’ve met?”

Charmer looked at her feet, sadness settling over her features. He felt the urge to nudge her chin up. “After they let me out, I… I didn’t know if I wanted to come back.” she admitted. “I wanted to run. Or die, to tell the truth. I did what I set out to do, I found my son, and I didn’t want to see anymore of the Institute’s work knowing that he was the one in charge of it all. 

“Charms.” Deacon stopped at her side and rested his hand on her shoulder, pivoting her to face him. It was harder and harder to keep his hands away from her.   
  
She looked up at him with a half-smile. “I guess I didn’t really want to do any of that, though, since I scribbled a rail sign where I’d posted up. The Courier was in the area, talked me down. She’s… something, isn’t she?”

There was an odd weight to the question. Deacon shrugged. “Glory certainly thinks so. A paragon of what the wastes make you, I think - but with a good head on her shoulders. Good intentions.” He ran his hand down her shoulder, rubbing her arm. “Still from the wastes like the rest of us, though. Got a bitterness you can’t erase in everything that grows here.” Not like Charmer. Pre-war idealism and hope still springing through, even as the world battered her like the ocean waves. He smiled. “Which is why I’m not a big fan of tarberries…”

It got Charmer to smile properly. “I don’t know, not everything’s so bad.” She nudged him with her elbow and started walking again. “You’ve got a good eye for people, at least.”

Deacon chuckled. “I’m just happy Glory’s got a partner to distract her. As much as she brags, being overworked makes her just the worst person to be around. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes that the rest of us are just as miserable as she is.”

“Misery loves company.” Charmer mused. “... were things that bad?”

“Yeah.” he breathed. “I told you - you were missed. Get ready, since all those questions we avoided last night are gonna still be there. If we’re lucky Dez has a job for us and we’ll be able to use the excuse of very important business to escape.” Deacon took his shades from his collar and flicked them open. The world darkened by a degree when he settled them over his eyes.

“Let’s hope.” Charmer agreed.

\--

Indeed, the minute they stepped in through the back door of HQ Drummer Boy tracked them down. “Dez wants to see you in PAM’s chamber.”

“Thank you, god.” Deacon spread his arms in gratitude, to Drummer Boy’s confusion. They passed the messenger boy and hurried to PAM’s chamber amidst curious eyes. He was going to try his damnedest to put things off as long as he could for Charmer. Her wounds had only just begun to heal, and the wrong question could set back what little progress they’d managed together.

To his surprise, Desdemona was flanked by Glory and the Courier when they arrived. Glory was more puffed up than ever, beaming with pride. The Courier was her typically subdued self, but there was a hint of a smile playing on her lips. 

It made Deacon suspicious.

Charmer gave the Courier a nod in greeting. The other woman softened somewhat. As with everything else, it seemed Charmer had made a genuine connection. Something in the way the two women looked at each other suggested it was quite different than the usual, however - there wasn’t gratitude or admiration in it like there was with settlers or Preston. Instead there was a quiet understanding, a graveness in their eyes.

Kindred spirits.

“Given the glowing recommendation by Glory, her recent performance, and your own insistence in recruiting her, we’ve decided to clear the Courier for HQ.” Desdemona explained, mistaking Deacon’s incredulity for surprise at the new presence. Truth be told, he was surprised it took this long. “We’ll need the extra hands. I’d  _ meant _ to give you all assignments yesterday, but it seems like you couldn’t be free of HQ fast enough.” 

Glory deflated a little at the scolding. Charmer winced in guilt. The Courier and Deacon, however, were unperturbed. He’d had an even bigger priority to handle - the job could wait a day, an easy price to pay in exchange for Charmer’s continued well being. As for the Courier - after what she’d seen, he figured it’d take a hell of a lot more than a stern look from Desdemona to make her feel anything.

With no argument from them, Desdemona continued. “PAM’s finished her cross referencing based on Charmer’s intel. A promising location for the code we need has been found. We’ve also come across a snag in our plans for expediting H2-22 and Danse out of the Commonwealth. Boston’s crawling with Gen 1s. After… deliberation…” Dez glanced to Glory and the Courier. “... we’re going with Carrington’s plan. We can’t risk rerouting them with the Brotherhood’s activity. The route will have to be cleared.”

He could see the embers of Glory’s temper start up again - she was one of few who assigned Gen 1s any humanity. Probably because they were, in some weird roundabout way, her ancestors. Deacon was somewhat disappointed that he’d missed the initial argument - and wondered just what Carrington had said to quiet both Glory and Desdemona’s concerns. Given that the good doctor was absent, he had the sense to make tracks until tempers had calmed again.

“Why’d you wait until we got here?” Deacon inquired. It seemed fairly straightforward. Glory and the Courier could handle the route clearing, he and Charmer would get the code. No reason to stall, on its face - but things in the Railroad were so rarely what they seemed.

Desdemona sighed. “Two reasons. First, to prepare you. The plan Charmer was told involves freeing a few dozen synths. However, the moment we do so, Charmer’s cover is blown and the Institute will be on high alert. We won’t be able to get them out of the Commonwealth for months - maybe years - and we won’t be able to go underground. Too risky. So we’re going to get  _ every _ synth out of there.”

The Courier was the only one to speak in the stunned silence that ensued. “Cards on the table, all in.” she murmured. “Only way we’ll get away with it is making sure they can’t get back up.”

“Exactly. We can’t afford to keep operating at status quo. We’re losing the war of attrition. So we make our last stand.” Desdemona looked like one of those pre-war statues, leaders of history standing proud and noble in spite of the bullet holes riddling them. Deacon wondered if this was what it was like, in those scenes from old history books. Words spoken plainly, deciding the fate of their world. “Either we die, or the Institute does.”

Glory was smiling, barely able to keep still from her excitement. It was the moment she’d been waiting for since she’d joined the Railroad, finally able to return to the place of her nightmares and burn it all down. Charmer’s shock quickly turned to anxiousness with a small dose of dread - he could see it from the way she clasped her hands to keep them from shaking, the little line that had formed between her brows, the quiver in her jaw. Desdemona had given her son a death sentence. 

The Courier, however, simply looked tired. Resigned. Absently she placed a hand to the wicked scar at her temple and rubbed it. If what she told him in Goodneighbor was true, this wasn’t the first time she’d been part of great change. He wondered if it would be just as damaging the second time around. But there was no grey area here - the Institute had to be destroyed. Not for power, not for politics, but for the wellbeing and safety of the Commonwealth. Things were different.

So Deacon told himself, as he looked at Charmer. All of this was possible because of her. All of it existed because of her son. The weight, the responsibility - all of it rested on her shoulders. The people saved, the people killed, the future of the entire fucking Commonwealth. A burden that had crushed the Courier and sent her fleeing east. A burden that had already tempted Charmer to flee.

Would she be the same, when all was said and done? Would his Charmer survive, if they succeeded? Or would she be changed?

The Courier stared at him, in those moments before Desdemona spoke again. A sense of urgency in her gaze.

Things were different here. Charmer had him - he wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t hold himself back to dwell amongst his ghosts. She was here and  _ real _ . Deacon would do whatever she asked of him. Would do whatever was necessary to make sure that she knew she had a home, that no matter what happened she had done good. She wouldn’t be left alone like the Courier.

The understanding passed between him and the woman from the west in heartbeats. The Courier dipped her head.

Desdemona inhaled, letting the silence and the gravity of their situation pass. “Once we get our last synths out of the Commonwealth, we’re pulling in all of our people for the last assault. Make sure you have everything you could possibly need, and then some. Caps won’t do us any good if we fail.” She swallowed. “Secondly - I waited for you all because I’m splitting you up.”

Deacon stiffened, spoke without thinking. “What?” It was sloppy, letting his true feelings show so obviously. The Deacon they all knew wouldn’t have cared, would have shrugged and rolled with it. Might have even been happy for some alone time at last. That wasn’t who he was, though - and his mask was disintegrating with every passing moment. He floundered to cover it up. “Whatever you want us to do can be done better if Charmer and I stick together. You know what kind of results we get, Dez.”   
  
Thankfully Glory piggybacked on his protest. “Deacon’s right. The Courier and I will blow through anything you put us on, you don’t have to worry about range or location or-”

Desdemona raised her hand, throwing them both into silence. “Obtaining the code will likely require technical knowledge. Furthermore, Charmer’s the one with full understanding of the mission, given that she was the one who made the report. However, it’s likely the Institute may have taken notice of the area given its connections to pre-war members of their organization. I’m not going to risk relying on your luck holding when it comes to combat, Deacon. ” She turned her attention to the Courier. “You’re going with her, Courier.”

Glory opened her mouth to argue, but Desdemona forged on ahead. The Courier exchanged a reassuring glance with her partner. She spoke so often without words that Deacon wondered if she missed her calling as a spy.

“Glory, we can’t afford to let you do anything but what you do best. You’re clearing up our routes with Deacon. I need his eyes on the situation. If you can see a pattern in their patrols, or can discover the intent behind their presence, I need to know.” Desdemona’s tone was firm, and the job too critical for Deacon to conveniently end up at Charmer’s side despite her orders.

“Just like old times, huh?” Deacon joked and smirked at Glory. It served to incense her. At least it was going to be fun. Not enough to make up for Charmer’s absence - or to cease the worry coiling in his gut - but he had to look for a silver lining.   
  
“PAM will give you the coordinates, Charmer. Deacon, Dr. Amari will tell you where you need to go. With any luck, we’ll be ready to launch our assault when you return. Dismissed.”

The three of them trailed out of PAM’s chamber. Glory and the Courier made their way for the back door, disappearing beyond the threshold to the hallway, while Deacon hovered outside of the room waiting for Charmer, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall.

He startled her when she came out by grabbing her arm and pulling her into the shadows behind a pillar shielded from view from the rest of the crypt. Before she could speak he pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his head on top of hers. He felt her arms snake around his waist. Her hair was soft on his chin. All of her was soft, to tell the truth. Deacon felt his eyes close on reflex. How long had he wanted to do this? How long had he wondered what she’d feel like, pressed against him? Here in the shadows, they could linger - now he was happy to remove the space between them, because for a few terrible weeks he’d thought there was an abyss.

“Stay safe out there.” Deacon murmured when he let her go. Charmer took a few moments to let her arms drop from around him. They stood inches apart, staring at each other in the dim light. “One step at a time. Don’t worry about the future.”

Charmer was silent. He saw her gaze flicker from his eyes to his lips. Felt her warm breath brush against his skin. 

“DEACON!” Glory’s shout startled them both. They stepped back from each other and looked around nervously. They were unseen. Glory didn’t stop, however. “I swear to fuck, if you’re going to make me wait  _ now _ I’m going to make sure we have an ‘accident’ on the road.”

“We should go.” Charmer whispered, and darted back around the pillar. He could feel her ghost in his arms. Maybe he’d gone too far. Tried to take something she couldn’t give.

He swallowed, and made his way to the back door.


	29. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just like old times.

Glory stewed in silence as they made their way to Goodneighbor. The ways in which she expressed her fury were about as numerous as the stars in the sky, from Deacon’s experience, but the quietest one was when she knew that the most infuriating course of action was also the right one. 

Her footfalls were heavy enough to make Deacon wince. Any attempt at stealth with her around was useless - he could hear the rustle of her body armor, the creak in her minigun, her heavy breathing. Deacon couldn’t believe they’d bothered to spend any time trying to teach her the ways of subtlety back when she first joined. It felt like an age ago.

Goodneighbor was calmer than usual. Which wasn’t saying much - there were a few drunks dozing in the streets and a customer loudly haggling prices with Daisy. Mid-day was the interim between revellers still drunk from the night before and thugs looking for a good time in the evening. The best time to do business.

The Memory Den was cool, shielded from the summer heat. It smelled as dusty as ever. He couldn’t help but remember when he’d seen Charmer there - figured the memory of her sobbing into Nick Valentine’s shoulder would strike him every time he returned. With the context of her newfound knowledge, the memory made him a little sick.

Irma greeted them casually, though her wink was reserved for Glory. That seemed to soften the synth woman’s temper. Her posture was more casual as they descended the steps to meet with Dr. Amari.

H2-22 was seated on the couch and looked somewhat out of sorts. Glory winced in sympathy. Deacon wondered what she thought of the Railroad’s practice of memory wipes. She never argued it, beyond refusing a wipe for herself. She never sung its praises, either. Most synths were happy to have their previous life - and knowledge of their nature - wiped away. But he wondered if they’d say differently when found again. Knew firsthand what horrors ignorance could produce.

Dr. Amari was at her workstation, checking over a clipboard. She turned on hearing their approach - impossible for anyone not to, with Glory in tow.

“Deacon.” Amari looked pleased. His presence was appreciated, it seemed. “Quick timing. Good. Have you settled on a solution for our problem?” 

“We’re clearing the route. Best and safest option - and easiest, too. If I end up having to track Brotherhood patrol patterns I might actually die of boredom.” Deacon answered, taking charge of the conversation before Glory could butt in. Not that he was worried she could do any damage to their reputation with Amari.

“Clearing the route.” The doctor repeated. “It’ll be dangerous - extremely so. Every last Gen 1 has to die. If even one survives…” she trailed off, letting the implication hang. Glancing over his shoulder, she frowned. “The woman who saved H2 - she’s not with you.”

Compartmentalization. Every little circle knew what it had to know and no more. The statement was an echo of a gut punch, a reminder of the recent past when he had to answer that Charmer wasn’t coming back. All at once their renewed absence stung. He was itching to get the job done.   
  
“On another job.” Deacon replied - truthfully, for a change. “Glory will get the job done, don’t worry. Maybe a bit too well”

“Good. Poor woman has seen enough danger for one lifetime.” Amari took something out of her pocket. “I ask because H2 wanted me to give her this. For her ears only.” She said sternly. Deacon had worked with her often enough for Amari to know that this instruction was likely to go unheeded. By a different Deacon, at least. Now - he intended to keep his word. Amari unfolded her hand to reveal a holotape resting in her palm. Deacon took it from her.

“Where are we headed?” Glory spoke, impatience obvious in her clipped tone. 

“Malden Center. Remember. No witnesses.” Amari spoke quietly, glancing over to H2’s slumped form on the couch. Deacon doubted he’d remember much of the next couple of days, if anything.

“Thanks, doc.” he offered her a lazy salute before turning to leave. Glory grunted as she lifted her minigun off the floor and followed suit.

\--

The route to Malden lead north to familiar territory. Switchboard was part of the township, and he knew routes in and out like the back of his hand. He’d utilized them when he met Charmer for her first job. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory - her uneasiness, how willing she was to please. His smile faltered when he remembered how innocent she was. How new the world was to her. So much of that had been driven from her.

The sun was drifting low in the sky by the time they’d crossed the last bridge by the BADTFL office. Glory spoke at last once they reached the opposite shore, her tone casual and light.

“So, you and Charmer, huh?”

Deacon kept his cool. He suspected she was going to ask him something about it eventually - even Glory couldn’t ignore her curiosity forever - and he’d come prepared.

“You finally noticed that we work together, huh? I thought it’d take you way longer. Yes, I confess, we’re coworkers- ow!” Deacon rubbed his arm, not quite slick enough to dodge the punch Glory threw his way.

“Don’t be a smartass. Look, even  _ I _ noticed how fuckin’ gloomy you were after she disappeared. Now she’s back and you’re suddenly a barrel of monkeys again?”

“She’s our best hope, Glory. Don’t act like you weren’t storming about, biting off the head of anyone who tried to ask you to do something like some awful mantis. We need her. I’m happy she’s back. It means we’ve got a fighting chance again.”

Glory was obviously unconvinced. It gave him pause. That meant she wasn’t as drunk as he’d thought that night at Mercer,  _ and _ that she’d caught sight of Charmer, too. Or the Courier tattled. Hm. That knocked her down a few pegs.

“It’s not that and you know it. You weren’t that cut up about Switchboard.” A spike of guilt lodged itself in his gut at her words. “You don’t care about anyone. It’s what you do. No one knows who the hell you are, you disappear for weeks at a time and tell people all sorts of things that don’t match up. Not with her.” Glory looked him in the eye - as best she could, with his shades on. 

Deacon kept to a casual stroll. “Or maybe you’re seeing things. Projecting.” He raised a brow at her, and couldn’t help but smirk at her immediate offense.

“If you’re talking about the Courier, I didn’t take her anywhere  _ private _ , like some people. Followed regulations. Surprised to see you breaking rules, seeing’s how you wrote half of them.” Her defense was endearing in its honesty and frankly a little terrifying, as most things with Glory tended to be.

“You and the Courier were a hell of a lot closer that night than Charmer and I were.” He retaliated with the truth. It was a strange habit that was beginning to form. “Guilty conscience, tsk tsk. I’ll get you to say fifty rosaries for that.”

“We just  _ danced _ !”

“And we just  _ talked. _ If yours is platonic, so’s mine.” Deacon finished a little more sharply than intended. Gave away his hand - though it was an unlikely bluff to begin with.

“So you admit it.” Glory’s tone lacked any of the smugness that usually came with her victory, empty of boastfulness or pride. Instead she sounded… awed? Impressed? “Good for you. Feel bad for her.”

“Don’t.” Deacon shut his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple. “Nothing to feel bad for. It’s not…” He struggled to find the proper word. “... a thing.”

“You’re the first person she looks for when she enters a room. Don’t bullshit me, it’s totally a thing. I won’t tell anyone, as long as you don’t snitch on me and the Courier. Gonna take her to the Third Rail after this now that all bets are off.” 

“No. It’s not a thing, no bets are off.” Deacon repeated. “And I’m not doing it just to follow regs. You’re right to feel bad for her. She’s dealing with a lot, the last thing she’d need is-”

“You’re kidding me.” Glory interrupted. “You haven’t  _ done  _ anything? Because what, you think it’d make life worse for her? Are you crazy?”

“Charmer deserves the sun and the moon and some fucking peace and quiet in her life. I don’t bring any of that to the table.” It was more truth than he’d ever intended to give. Deacon tried to cover it up with an aloof smile. “She’ll stay married to work, or maybe she’ll end up making the life of that kid heading up the Minutemen now. Or maybe Robert House’s ghost will make her the sugar baby of her dreams. It’s really up in the air.”

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard, including my own.” Glory set her minigun down and strode over to him, roughly pulling him round to face her. “Don’t be a dumbass. Look, Desdemona wants us to charge into the Institute head on. Now, even I’ve run the numbers. I remember bits and pieces of what it was like in there, and I know it’s going to be a bloodbath at best.” The sudden realism coming from her was a shock to him. Usually Glory was, well, vainglorious - a paragon, never defeated, always confident. Never believing loss was even an option. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it. I don’t know  _ who’s _ going to make it. So I’m trying to do the best I fuckin’ can to have no regrets and do shit now instead of later, because I don’t know if I’m going to be around for it.”

“I’m not going to ruin-”

“I swear to god, Dee, if you give me one more limp dick excuse I’m going to rip your tongue out of your mouth. Ask her yourself. You can feel sorry for yourself all your life, but don’t make her miserable with it.” Glory released him at last and walked back over to her minigun.

Deacon wondered if bruises were going to form where she’d grabbed him. He scowled - not just at Glory’s inability to know the scope of the situation - but at how her words had managed to draw out a part of him he’d long since silenced. The hopeful part, that wanted to wake up every morning with Charmer at his side. The part that had forgotten how the pattern seemed to go, how his presence would only drag her down in the end. If  _ Preston fucking Garvey _ wasn’t good enough for her in his eyes, he certainly wasn’t.

“I’m going to take her on that date anyway.” Glory admitted when they started walking again. “Dez can’t drop a bomb like that and expect me not to act like this mission’s my last. Besides, if we win and I don’t die, it’s not like breaking the rules will matter anyways. Once the Institute’s gone… what do we do? With all the synths saved, who needs secrecy?”

“We still have to get them settled, whatever they want to do. That’s a lot of lives to sort out. People in the Commonwealth aren’t going to change their minds on synths just because we get rid of the Institute.” Deacon frowned at the horizon, the world tinged red as the sun started to dip below. The landscape looked bloody. It felt like a bad omen. “Don’t be so eager.”

“None of that involves the Institute capturing one of us and everything falling apart because we have someone important to us. And if you  _ still _ want to insist on dumb ass rules when they’re not needed anymore, I’ll quit.” Glory finished matter-of-factly. She wielded words like she did a weapon - brutally and wildly, making broad sweeps and seeing what would hit.

“You can tell Dez that.” If he was being honest with himself, the idea of the Railroad becoming obsolete terrified him. Not just because of the good they could do for more than synths, once the narrowness of their focus became unneeded. The lack of purpose would be what would truly kill him - without a distraction from the sins he’d collected in his head, he was sure he’d lose it.

“Hmph.” Glory seemed happy to leave it at that.

\--

As expected, fighting Gen 1s had Glory on edge. He saw her face contort in pity, watched her nose wrinkle when they’d shot apart a coolant tube in the things and caused thick blue liquid to spurt out like blood.

If they’d shredded human combatants like they did synths, he’d make the same face. Soon that hypothesis was put to the test, when it fast became clear that the synths weren’t the only ones who’d set up shop in Malden.

Deacon slipped ahead and set up mines before withdrawing back to Glory. He’d take an easy shot at one of their opponents with his rifle to draw their attention, the first wave would be picked off with his mines and whatever remained would be mowed down by Glory’s minigun. It was a system they’d perfected back when she was still a rookie, when they truly realized what an asset they had in her.

“You know, this reminds me of old times.” He piped up as they crept through subway cars, crouched so as not to be seen through the window. It didn’t cut down on the noise - Glory was a walking elephant - but it at least made them difficult to shoot.

“Don’t start with me, grandpa.” 

“Oh, okay, now you don’t want me to be sentimental. Sorry. Getting mixed messages here-” He dodged back when she tried to fling another fist his way.

“We’re going to have a friendly fire incident if you keep it up.” Glory growled. A shout from outside alerted them to the presence of more raiders.

“Nah. Then you’d have to get someone even  _ worse _ . It’s how these things work. Not every new recruit can be a Courier, you know.” Teasing her was one of Deacon’s favorite activities, and the chance to enact at least some vengeance for her questioning was irresistible.

“You’ve got to do this shit while I’m getting ready to get shot at?”

“Like we’re in any trouble with you here. Come on.”

“Can’t fight you there.”

The ensuing battle was an extended one - the groups of raiders were too close to each other not to hear their comrades get gunned down. More synths entered the fray by the time they’d reached the main chamber of operations, and things quickly devolved into a free for all.

Deacon had exhausted his supply of grenades and Glory was nearly out of ammo, but eventually they stood as the only survivors. Blood and coolant mixed together on the ground. He tried not to pay too much attention to the gore. He was bad with bodies since… well. A long time ago.

“Courier would’ve done it better. Sorry, D-Man.” Glory huffed, giving the area a quick once-over for any supplies or ammo. 

“If you start telling me how perfect your girlfriend is, I’m going to be sick.” It’d be a nice cover if he ended up losing his lunch over the carnage they’d wrought. “You done stealing from the dead yet?”

“Raiders don’t count as people.” Glory called over. “And you don’t get to call her my girlfriend.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “I’m leaving. You can find your own way back.”

“Ugh, fine, I’m coming.”

\--

They made camp in the crumbling ruins of an old house. The Malden job had taken long enough to have them leaving the subway by midnight, and even Glory wasn’t foolish enough to risk a trip all the way back to Boston in the darkness. Outside of the city core, things lurked in the darkness, and Deacon didn’t plan on getting killed on such a straightforward mission.

Glory was shovelling down a salisbury steak while Deacon stared into their fire. Shadows were cast on the crumbling walls, dancing.

He wondered if Charmer was done with her job. It was closer than Malden, and if all they had to do was retrieve a code he might be able to eat breakfast with her the next morning. That made the thought of sleeping more promising.

“It’s actually nice, you know.” Glory spoke between mouthfuls. “You and Charmer. You’re nicer around her. Dez appreciates it - heard her mention it to Carrington.”

“I’ll be less nice if you keep going on about it.” Deacon said mildly, flopping down in his bedroll. 

“I’m trying to give you a compliment, motherfucker.” Glory jabbed her fork at him. “Don’t get mad because I’m not used to it. Anyways.” She stabbed at another chunk of steak. “I’m just saying, I haven’t seen or heard anything as long as you cut the Courier and I some slack, okay?”

“Fine.” Deacon relented. “Now will you let me get some sleep? ‘Cause for me, beauty sleep is literally beauty sleep, if I don’t get my eight hours in boy, if you thought that month I spent as a ghoul was bad-”

“Okay, okay, jesus. Go to bed and shut up.” Glory snapped open the cap on a beer. She raised the bottle to the air. “To the end of the Institute.” she toasted, before tipping it back and gulping down the liquid.

Deacon closed his eyes, possibilities dancing in his head. What-ifs that were starting to look increasingly likely. Maybe Glory had a point. 

Still. He had no plans on ruining a good thing. Especially when Charmer was still recovering from her first visit to the Institute. 

In time, though?

Maybe.


	30. Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the two women, it's the differences in reflection that matter.

Charmer was quite unlike anyone the Courier had travelled with before. In their trip back from the sea shore, they’d both been in such a state of sleep deprivation that it was all a haze, and had parted ways on hitting the city limits.

Now, they weaved through alleyways and urban jungle, their skills were required in full.

It was nerve-wracking to see the woman go about their business. More than once the Courier had to grab her by the collar and pull her back from walking right into the open. Charmer had muttered something about her being worse than Deacon, but didn’t seem to mind. The woman walked around as if she owned the place, like a buzzed NCR trooper sauntering down the Strip. On occasion she’d pry off a piece of plywood blocking an old doorway and looked inside. Twice she took out some chalk and drew the rail sign for ‘cache’.

Charmer’s ability to turn a simple trip into a scouting mission was impressive, the Courier had to admit. She had a knack for finding things, and moved efficiently enough that they didn’t lose too much time.

“Have things changed much?” The Courier asked, keeping a lookout while Charmer drew out another railsign for a new route they’d utilized. 

Charmer glanced over her shoulder. “They’ve changed a lot and not at all.” she answered cryptically. “I’m surprised how little looting happened. Couple centuries on and things still aren’t picked clean.”

“If the people of the Commonwealth are anything like the ones in the Mojave, superstition rules.” The Courier mused. “Don’t fuck with anything you don’t have to. Keep walls up. You don’t know what’s behind them or why they were put up. More often than not places are crawling with ferals.”

Her companion gave a thoughtful hum at that, stuffing her chalk back into her pocket. “What do you think it’s like for them? Sitting in the dark for god knows how long. Stuck for an eternity at their workplace, or the grocery store...” A strange vein of sympathy ran in her tone. Sadness. “I know they don’t really… think anymore, but…”

The memory of men flayed by sandstorms and kept alive through radiation came to her mind. “Worse fates out there.” 

It didn’t seem to soothe Charmer. They moved on.

\--

The Courier took point when they neared their destination - a stone building that must have been impressive back in the day, for even after a nuclear bomb its exterior shone in the sunlight. If one ignored the pock marks of bullet holes, it was a taste of pre-war prosperity.

She kept her rifle in hand and nudged the front door open. Inside it was surprisingly bright - the domed ceiling of the atrium had collapsed, letting the midday sun pour in. Movement. She raised her rifle and peered down the sights to see a Mr. Handy casually hovering near a ruined reception desk. It bobbed up and down, thrusters blowing away the dust, but made no move toward them.

“Seems clear for now.” The Courier murmured and slipped inside, Charmer hot on her heels. Before she could stop her, the pre-war woman strode up to the Mr. Handy.

Or _ Mrs _. Handy, given the female voice that came from the old bot.

“Welcome to Cambridge Polymer Labs! Due to increased demand, we have expanded our employment parameters! Exciting opportunities await! Are you here for an interview?” The robot chirped. Charmer looked over her shoulder with an expectant grin, though her face fell on seeing the Courier’s stony expression.

What was Charmer expecting?

“... sure. It’s been two hundred years since I’ve had a desk job.” Charmer replied, brushing the dust from her jacket as if she could make herself look like she wasn’t living post-war. The Courier approached the desk and did her best to keep an eye out for any hostiles.

“Excellent!” The secretary’s servos whirred in what the Courier could only guess was eagerness. “First question - do you have any experience working with polymers?”

“If you’re asking people off the street, I don’t think ‘experience’ really matters.” Charmer frowned in a manner that the Courier was starting to associate with most depressing things Old World. 

“Interview complete.” The robot stated flatly, causing the two women to exchange incredulous looks. “Congratulations! You have been signed a position with Sales. Please take your uniform. Change rooms are down the hall.” There was the sound of grating metal as the bot’s chassis opened, a tan suit tumbling out along with a handful of labcoats and far too much dust. The bot turned and hovered away, unbothered by the fact that Charmer had let the suit just fall to the ground.

“Fucking eerie.” The Courier murmured under her breath. “Like talking to a ghost.”

“I like it. Deacon would’ve found it funny.” Charmer replied lightly. She seemed too at ease in their surroundings. Empty corridors twisting and turning, heavy with the smell of dust and age, untouched for far too long. 

_ Echoes of radio static. Solid light roaming the halls. _

A prod to her arm brought her back.

“Courier?”

“Sooner we get what we need, the better. You needed a code or something, right?” The Courier answered too quickly to be casual. Her companion looked suspicious, but didn’t follow up on it.

“Yeah. One of the poindexters working here had an admin password to old CIT. So we need to find his office. Or terminal. Lab’s probably a good place to start.” Charmer explained, leading the Courier down the hall. It was bad tactics, but looking at Charmer’s back was centering. Soothing.

Reminded her that she was a world away from what haunted her.

They went through a sad facsimile of what the Courier assumed was a somewhat average pre-War clock in. They passed through the locker room, moth eaten old world coats and dresses hanging from hooks. Charmer picked up a somewhat intact hat and tried it on.

“Felt left out.” The woman shrugged at the Courier’s raised brow and gestured at her beret. 

It seemed Charmer had picked up a few habits from Deacon. Or maybe Deacon had picked up a few habits from her. Or perhaps they both shared an irreverent streak. The Courier wondered if Deacon joked to cover his nerves like Charmer did.

For the woman _ was _ nervous. It was obvious by the way her hands quivered when she approached the decontamination terminal, by her sudden reticence to enter the chamber ahead.

“What’s wrong?” The Courier prodded at her back, but still she lingered in the doorway.

“Just… give me a sec.” Charmer breathed slowly, deeply. Her hands clenched into fists, then relaxed.

“... you don’t like tech much, do you?”

“I don’t like _ this _ sort of tech, no.”

“We’ll be in and out. Don’t worry. I’m here.” The Courier did her best to sound soothing and tapped the badge on her beret. “ ‘Last Thing You Never See’. I’ll shoot us through this if I have to.”

Charmer smiled weakly. “... thanks.”

They stepped into the decontamination chamber. The door shut behind them, and Charmer flinched. There was a beat of silence.

Suddenly their pip-boys began a duet, geiger counters ticking frantically. 

“Fuck.”

Charmer was trying to get the panel to the door controls open. The Courier yanked a bottle of rad-x from her pocket and downed a couple pills before she thrust it at her partner. Her eyes darted around the small chamber, looking for options. She could see the needle of her pip-boy’s rad counter rising from her periphery.

There was a crack in the wall. The Courier backed up and took a running jump at it.

Her body collided with decaying tile and plaster. The wall gave way, covering her in dust. Her shoulder ached, but her pip-boy quieted. She could hear Charmer’s hurried footsteps from behind her, felt hands loop under her shoulders and pull her back up.

“Thank god.” Charmer started brushing the plaster dust and bits of tile from the Courier’s duster. She waved her off.

“I’m not going to any fucking dances.” she barked, more hostile than she’d meant. The Courier was about to apologize when the telltale rasping cry of a ghoul broke through the air.

More followed. Too many.

“Shit.” The Courier hissed. Charmer ran to a nearby desk and tipped it over to serve as a makeshift barricade. _ Clever. _ The Courier dragged another over to the corner and did the same. 

“I’ve got grenades.” 

Bare footsteps padded along the metal tile.

“Good. Save a bullet for yourself if we’re overrun.” The Courier’s brutal honesty was a sharp contrast to Deacon’s manner of dealing with things, judging by how Charmer’s face had paled. She settled in with her rifle, ready to make a firing lane out of their little alcove. The ghouls had only one way to reach them - the stairs.

If they didn’t start pouring from the walls. She’d taken out one already. A dozen angry ferals could do the same easily.

There wasn’t any time to dwell on it, for their foe had arrived. Her rifle took out the first few - the fastest, staggered out from the main force. Charmer had at least been around long enough to know how ferals tended to work, because a grenade rolled its way over to the landing just in time for the main swarm to make an appearance.

Limbs went flying along with fluids the Courier didn’t want to think about. Commonwealth ferals were squishier than the desert variety and twice as ugly. Killing them was unpleasant work. She tried to breathe through her mouth so the scent of radiation fermented viscera didn’t overwhelm her and shot down the final few ghouls.

“Wait here.” The Courier hopped over the desk and walked over to the landing, stepping over the corpses. It overlooked the lab’s atrium, reminiscent of the central halls of old Vaults. She couldn’t see any movement, couldn’t hear anything else. “Clear.” she called over her shoulder. “Must have woken up every fucker in here when I knocked out the door.”

Charmer approached slowly, unable to keep herself from looking at the ghouls. The Courier wondered if she did the same to everything else she killed. “Good.” It didn’t sound like she entirely approved. Exhaustion crept into her voice. “Let’s find this code and get out of here.”

\--

The thing about pre-War ruins was that they always had a story. Post-war ruins too, sometimes, but the people of the Old World had the unique obsession of documenting everything. Not just formulae or passwords, but thoughts, feelings. The briefest connection with a time long passed, a handshake with the dead. 

She’d lost her taste for it after the Sierra Madre.

Charmer, however, couldn’t get enough. Perhaps it was her own way of connecting with the world she left behind. As so often happened, though, the lives imprinted on the terminal screens gave only sadness. Charmer paraphrased things for the Courier as they moved from terminal to terminal, office to office.

_ “They were all here when the bombs hit. They didn’t know.” _

_ “One of them was married to the man outside. He locked them in. The military wouldn’t help them unless they had something special. He told her not to tell anyone, didn’t want a panic to make it impossible to achieve results.” _

_ “There was a coup. The man whose password we’re trying to get - he wanted to break out. They broke into the vents to try and stop him.” _

With each new terminal, Charmer’s demeanor grew graver and graver. The life seemed to leech from her eyes. The two of them found the duct system the scientists fled to - and their first skeleton. Charmer stiffened as they passed it.

They found their way into the blocked office - that which held their code. Another skeleton lay on the floor. The Courier watched the door while Charmer set to work on obtaining what they needed, narrating the journal entries and emails as she searched through them.

“He activated the emergency controls and lifted the lockdown. It turned on the security systems and opened the door to the reactor chamber.” She spoke flatly. The Courier was tempted to tell her to stop, but she knew how vital closure could be. Even for these little things.

“Explains the ghouls.” They’d heard their geiger counters tick as they passed the area in their explorations, even after two hundred years. If the security systems didn’t wipe out the scientists, the radiation did.

“They didn’t have a chance.” Charmer breathed. “I don’t think the military could have made it here either, research or not. They didn’t have a chance, and they spent their last days like this.”

Living in the wastes as long as she had, the Courier had grown tougher than she’d liked to tales of woe. They were constant, new ones cropping up like glow fungus. Spending energy mourning the old ones of the same people who’d brought armageddon upon the world wasn’t worth it.  
  
But they were from Charmer’s time. At some point every wastelander looked at the face of a dead ghoul - or living, sane one - and realized how thin the line was between them. How easily the balance could have tipped. This woman, this living relic, had read the last moments and thoughts of the ferals whose corpses now littered the ground. She must have wondered what would have happened if it was her instead.

Judging by how her voice had changed with each terminal entry, perhaps Charmer even wished for it.   
  
“Got the code.” Charmer’s voice sounded behind her again, breaking the silence. The office door slid open with a keystroke.

“Let’s get the fuck out-” The Courier paused. She tasted metal. In the space of a heartbeat, she heard the geiger counters start up again, a gentle brush of flesh against metal, saw a dim glow grow bright above.

_ A Glowing One. _

The explosion of energy from it shattered the ceiling tiles and sent the two women stumbling back. The creature leapt down from the newly formed hole and tackled Charmer to the ground. 

Her rifle fired, her ears ringing from the sound in such close quarters. At point blank range it didn’t take much to bring the thing down, but not before Charmer shrieked in pain. The ghoul slumped dead on top of the woman, but she was at least capable enough of pushing it off of her.

The Courier grabbed her partner by the arm and hoisted her up, dragging her out of the office as soon as possible. She didn’t stop until they were by the terminal by the exit - if Charmer was going to die on her, she was at least going to make sure the Courier wasn’t going to share the fate of the rest of the poor fools trapped in the lab.

“Got bit.” Charmer rolled up her sleeve while the Courier dug in her bag for medical supplies. True enough, semicircles of oozing blood bloomed against her pale skin, the flesh around them irritated and red. Ripe for infection.

While terminals and books weren’t in the Courier’s realm of expertise, field medicine and other tools of survival were. She tugged out a stimpack, vodka, and some bandages. Charmer hissed while she did her best to disinfect the wounds and looked away when the Courier jabbed the stimpack needle into her arm. Delicate. How she’d managed in the Commonwealth was beyond the Courier, but she supposed she couldn’t judge her too harshly given the circumstances.

“Try not to die until we’re back.” The Courier did her best attempt at a joke. “Just so Deacon doesn’t kill me.”

Somehow it got a laugh out of Charmer. “I’ll do my best. You know, I used to think that a bite from a ghoul would turn you into one, like in those old horror movies.”

“Sounds corny.” 

“... I’ll have to show you some. Deacon managed to find a stash of old holos.” Charmer winced when the Courier tightened her bandages, but immediately set to work on overriding the lockdown on the terminal when she was freed from the wastelander’s attentions.

The statement nagged at the Courier. The way in which Charmer spoke of the man was something she recognized. The tone was a fond one, but it was steeped in sadness. Longing. Pining. 

From how Glory told it, Deacon didn’t so much as hug the woman when she’d returned from the dead.

It sent a wave of nausea through her. Or maybe it was burgeoning radiation sickness. 

“You two sound close.” she began cautiously. How long had it been since she’d bothered to use tact? It felt strange on her tongue. So much time around Glory had made her used to skipping straight to the point - but she didn’t want to burn down what thin bridge had been built between her and Charmer. She didn’t know if she’d ever meet someone who had her burden again.

Charmer paused in her work. “We’re partners.” She said casually. It was all the answer the Courier needed.

“Mm. I had a partner once.” she began. “A spotter. You want one of those, if you want to do much good sniping at the real long ranges. None of the rooftop street warfare bullshit.” Charmer’s fingers slowed on the keys. Good. She was paying attention. “ Helped me remember some things. Mostly about how to kill. Quiet man. Intense. He’d lost his wife to slavers and made it his life’s mission to wipe them off the face of the earth. One man against hundreds.”

The keystrokes stopped. Charmer looked at her over her shoulder. “... you said you left the Mojave because you were tired of waiting for a man to love you.” Suspicion was clear in her gaze - but it was tempered by the furrow of her brow. Dread. Charmer had an eye for detail and a sharp memory, it seemed. Made it easier for her to pick up on what the Courier was trying to say. 

“That was him. Craig Boone.” The name was breathed into the stale air of the labs, given voice for the first time in years. Pain didn’t follow it - just a dull, hollow feeling in her chest. “Number of times I saw him without the shades on I can count on one hand. Thought it was because he was used to operating at night, at first. Wasn’t the reason why, though. Windows to the soul, and all that.”

Emotions visibly battled their way across Charmer’s psyche. Anger. Indignation. Offense. Denial. Sadness. Hope. That familiar, terrible cocktail that was standing on the edge of a cliff. Unable to step back unless _ they _ were the ones to pull you. In the end, it was an awful helplessness. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” The other woman said flatly.

“You do.” The Courier countered bluntly. “Look, end of the day, I’m trying to give you some advice. You’ve got enough on your shoulders. Don’t add another burden onto it. Boone and I, it was like… like one of these ghouls. An imitation of the real thing that I kept alive for too long.”

Charmer’s expression shifted. Her eyes scanned the Courier’s face in sudden curiosity. “... you couldn’t outrun him, could you?”

It was like being doused in cold water. The feral part of her wanted to slam the smaller woman into the wall, to scream into her face at daring to pierce at the soft parts of her - but the Courier had done the same. Charmer had a delicate way of retaliation, a pre-War way - as deadly as anything the Wasteland could produce.

“No.” The Courier answered thickly, swallowing. “Maybe it’s too late for me. Not for you, though. Just… be careful. Is all I ask.”

Sympathy was a reaction the Courier despised - it was so close to pity, such a signifier of her own helplessness that it sparked a primal rage within her. Charmer looked at her with it, took her calloused hand into her soft palms. “I don’t think it’s too late for you. I… understand what you’re trying to say. Thank you.”

Somehow gentle words were like physical blows. Charmer released her hand and turned back to the terminal, leaving the Courier to grapple with what had happened. At last she understood the tones agents used when speaking of Charmer, the admiration edged with fear. It wasn’t fear of what the woman could do physically. It was the knowledge that in a heartbeat she could shift the dynamics of a conversation and leave you helpless.

Once Charmer got the lockdown lifted and the exit opened, the Courier didn’t argue when her companion decided to make one last stop. They ascended the stairs to the upper level, followed the signs to the office of the CEO. When Charmer pushed the door open, a single starved ghoul in a tattered business suit struggled to push off the ground.

She watched the ghoul struggle and fail with a blank look on her face. Beheld the remnants of a man who had tried so valiantly to save those around him with lies.

Her eyes spoke volumes.

The Courier’s words burrowed deeper than she thought.


	31. Praying Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fog of war clears.

At this point in his life, Deacon was used to chaos. It was comfortable in its familiarity - so rare had peace become that even when there was no cause for alarm he found himself on edge. When the world was collapsing around him, he tended to work his best.

On his and Glory’s return to HQ order seemed the furthest thing from everyone’s minds. The most agents in one place since Switchboard scurried about - some frantically downloading data onto hard drives, others carrying bins of ammo and weaponry. Sturdier agents were hurriedly stacking sandbags at strategic points. Cover.

Tension in the Commonwealth had been building for years - initially he’d thought enough of it was released with the Switchboard’s destruction, but now he knew it was only the first sign of the final explosion. With Charmer’s entrance into the Institute, synth patrols had become more frequent, bolder. Deacon assumed their confidence was up with the belief that they had Charmer on their side. With their presumed secret weapon, secrecy was fast becoming useless. 

It relieved him a little to know the Railroad was smarter, in that aspect. Even though they were where Charmer’s true allegiances lay, they’d never grown comfortable. They couldn’t afford to. He’d seen their world burn down around them too many times.

This was unusual, though - things were being brought _ into _ HQ, rather than out of it. Drummer Boy flagged him and Glory down, and he figured their current surroundings were soon to be explained. Glory nodded approvingly at a sandbag installation they passed as they made their way to Desdemona. She paced in front of their map of Boston.

Charmer was at her side, looking terribly nervous. Her arms were folded tight against her chest, and her eyes darted around the room. Deacon saw her shoulders relax the smallest degree when she caught sight of him.

The Courier was nowhere in sight. Glory stiffened beside him.

“I see we lost the race.” Deacon observed, keeping his tone light. Times like these, morale could be the difference between life or death. He kept any doomsaying thoughts to himself. “Do they still give out silver medals if there’s only one other group competing?”

“Thank god you’re back.” Desdemona said breathlessly and ceased her pacing. Her eyes glimmered with anticipation, a stark contrast to Charmer’s anxious disposition. Something big had happened. Was happening. Dez broke her matronly demeanor when it came to a plan of hers finally rolling into motion, embodied the young woman who had taken up the Railroad’s mantle so many years ago. But there was an impatience in her mannerisms that suggested a rogue element had come up. “I’ve sent the Courier out already. Time is of the essence.”

He heard Glory let out a small sigh of relief from behind him. “What, think she’s good enough for solo jobs? Not that I’m complaining, she is, but…”

“That’s a complaint.” Deacon retorted.

Dez cut across the two of them, slicing her hand through the air in a silencing motion. “Change of plans. We have Coursers within our operating area. Yes, plural, Coursers. I’ve sent the Courier to deal with what she can. Glory, I’m sending you to cover our southwest quadrant. Take anything you need.”  
  
“Anything?” Glory looked as if she’d just won the lottery.

“Wait.” he interjected. “We have Coursers - plural - close enough to smell us and we’re not evacuating?”

“We’re past normal operating procedure.” Desdemona placed her hands flat on the stone that served as their war table. “I’m drawing in all agents for the final assault. Charmer’s agreed to the plan. We stay here as long as possible. If we go to the mattresses now, we’re not going to get back up.”

Glory punched her palm and grinned. “Fucking finally! Taking the fight to them.” She glanced over at Deacon with some cheek. “Won’t be long now. Don’t screw things up while I’m gone.”

“It’s not open season - yet.” Desdemona called after her. “If I don’t see you in a couple of days-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Glory called over her shoulder. She was already sauntering toward the armory - she’d burned through most of her ammo clearing out Malden. “Look, Dez, I’m not going to miss the action. If you think I’m going to dawdle now you’ve got another thing coming.” 

_ Not going to miss another moment with the Courier, maybe. _ Deacon thought to himself as Glory disappeared into the bustling crowd.

Desdemona didn’t look reassured. “Now, Deacon, I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve waited-”

“You know how needy I am. Love to feel included. I’m touched, really.” He played it off - he’d already figured the reason for most of Charmer’s unease was the same reason she hadn’t been assigned to do something the moment she returned, like the Courier. It had him assuming the worst - and he couldn’t let anyone else pick up on it. 

“Ticonderoga’s gone dark.” Charmer spoke, rather than Dez, and the statement hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Shit.” Deacon swore before he could stop himself. He recalled the rainy nights and radstorms spent sheltered in High Rise’s company, hours spent playing cards and munching on pre-War snack food. _ Charmer, illuminated in the morning light. _ He’d tried not to get attached to safehouses, after the first of them burned, but like so many things Charmer had gotten him firmly entangled. 

He desperately hoped it wouldn’t prove a disaster in the making.

“We don’t know if they’re pinned down and laying low or if the worst has happened. Which requires the talents unique to your partnership.” Dez was optimistic, or at the very least she tried to appear to be optimistic. She gestured between the two of them. “I need you to investigate, and if necessary eliminate. If anyone at Ticon was sloppy, or if the Institute’s already found enough pieces of the puzzle…”

“I know.” Deacon replied. “Look, I can go alone. We can’t risk Charmer’s cover.” It was a messy excuse, but the idea of fighting another Courser in close quarters with her filled him with terror. His collarbone still ached from the first time, and if this Courser wasn’t alone the Cryolator would do little to help them. 

“That’s the exact reason I’m coming with you.” Charmer snapped. Her arms fell to her sides. “If the Institute is already there I might be able to get us the first strike. The leader of the Institute -” _ She never said his name, after the first time. _ He didn’t blame her. “- is adamant that I see everything they do. Understand it. Get my hands dirty. It won’t be a surprise for me to be there if they got hit, and then we don’t get shot to pieces the second the elevator opens.”

It was an argument she’d had before, judging by the exasperation in her tone and the orderly manner in which she stated her point. He could imagine her in the courtroom as she laid out her case. There was something wrong about it, though - Charmer had none of her usual optimism. She argued as if the worst was certain - her presence was only needed if the worst had happened. Deacon couldn’t argue it beyond stating the truth - that they couldn’t afford to lose her. Unfortunately, he knew that the Railroad couldn’t afford wasting her talents, either.

At least he’d be able to do something this time, if it all went wrong. Deacon wasn’t much of a praying man, but in times like these he was tempted.

“Alright.” he surrendered. They didn’t have time for debate. “So Dez, I hope the strong young men you’ve got carting bins to the armory aren’t just showing off for no reason…”

Desdemona visibly cheered - as much as she could, given the circumstances. “It's yours. Hurry. Dismissed.” She pushed away from the planning table and started her rounds - her voice carried as she moved deeper into the crypt, issuing commands and instructions. The entirety of HQ was like Schrodinger’s experiment - ready to stand their ground and flee all at once.

Charmer was back at his side the moment she was able, though she was keeping more distance than usual while they walked to the armory. Or was he just hyper aware of their proximity, now that he had finally understood the war that raged in his mind? They’d hit the endgame. In a matter of days, they’d be laying siege to the Institute - fortune willing. What harm would it do, if his comrades saw him take her hand? Heard him speak to her like he had been for months in private? Glory’s words echoed in his mind. If their world was going to end soon, was he truly happy with these being their last moments?

He was. After weeks without her, he knew all he needed was just to be near her side. The slightest risk of tainting that wasn’t worth making his fantasies reality. He knew who he was, and her forgiveness wouldn’t change that.

But god, he wished it could.

They entered the corner by the shooting range that served as the armory. Glory had already had her way with it, empty ammunition cases knocked over on the floor - but even so, the place was overflowing with supplies. Between the trade routes Charmer had managed to set up with Preston and Mercer’s scavenging teams their logistics had boomed. 

“So. Worst case scenario.” Charmer’s expression was blank, carefully composed as she spoke. He hated it. “You said one of the towers by the river collapsed after a firefight years ago. Was that a lie?”

“No.” Deacon answered. He had a vague idea of where she was going with this. “You want to try and do the same to Ticon?”

“If we’re outnumbered. I’d prefer not to.” She started piling as many explosives as possible into her pack, mixed in with a couple of ammo boxes. “Let’s get a detonator from Tom on our way out.” Her movements were rough, betraying her inner turmoil at the thought. Guilt had crept its way into her, an insidious sickness. He knew part of her blamed herself for it all, no matter what he told her.

“Yeah.” Deacon breathed in response. When their packs were overloaded, they’d taken to filling their pockets.

A remembrance struck him, as his fingers brushed cool plastic in his pocket. H2’s holotape. _ Something good. _ Hard evidence that no matter what, no matter the guilt or the things her son did, she was a bright spot in the Commonwealth. Deacon fished the holotape out of his pocket and slipped it into her palm. Her fingers curled around his hand as he withdrew. Confusion was clear on her features.

“I checked in at the Memory Den when I was out. H2 was there, fresh out of the pod. More out of it than Hancock on a good day. Amari said he recorded that for you. Just for you. Not that I could listen to it if I wanted to, since I don’t have a Pip-Boy surgically grafted to my-”

“Stop trying to make that urban legend happen.” Charmer huffed. It was enough to distract her from her own thoughts - if just for the moment. She tucked the holotape into an interior pocket of her jacket, folded the collar closed and affectionately patted the cloth over where the holotape lay. “... I’m sad I wasn’t able to say goodbye. He seemed like a good kid.” She pressed her lips together - her trademark method for trying to keep them from quivering. Deacon found himself mesmerized. “How was he?”

A mad desire to kiss her had seized him - what were once soon faded urges had begun to turn into a gripping vice. The emotion in her eyes was something he could drown in. He wanted to throw himself in, let her hold his heart in her hand and a knife in the other. For the hundredth time he battled down the fury in his heart that someone like her had ended up in a place like the Commonwealth. Deacon floundered, but managed to reel himself together before she could notice.

“Like I said - more out of it than Hancock on a good day. Doesn’t remember a thing. Usually how it goes, when they decide for the wipe. It’s a good thing, though. I don’t think there’s much in the Institute he’d want to remember. Once we finish them off, he’ll be headed for greener pastures.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to say hi someday.” Charmer tied off the top of her pack and slung it around her shoulders with a light grunt. Just heavy enough to be noticeable, but not so much as to hinder movement. They needed every advantage they could get. 

Deacon dipped out to steal a detonator from Tom - they didn’t have the time to exchange pleasantries and conspiracy theories with him. It felt wrong, to start a mission without it. The usual ritual. Maybe it was a bad portent. 

He returned to Charmer with a detonator in hand. She stared at him as he mirrored her method of slinging her pack over her shoulders, though he made a greater show of it.

“Well, if the Coursers don’t kill me my bad back finally will.” He joked as they made their way for the back exit, weaving between busy agents. 

“Quit acting like such an old man.” Charmer sighed. Her face twisted suddenly, and for a moment he thought that she _ knew _ . His previous, insane desire seemed pathetic. But she didn’t know - there was no way she _ could _ know, the only people who knew just how old he really was were long dead. 

That left another possibility. The other old man she knew. Deacon reached out to place his hand on her shoulder when they stood in front of the rusting iron door of the escape tunnel. Charmer welcomed the contact - his touch had a rippling effect on her body, soothed it. The trade off was that the same effect influenced the mask she was barely keeping together. Her eyes watered.

“Hey, Charms. It’s going to be alright.” These lies were his favorites. The white ones, innocent and pure of intention. Deacon knew that in the coming days the Railroad’s numbers were likely to be cut in half. He didn’t know if he’d be part of the necessary losses, but he did know that as long as he drew breath he’d make sure she’d continue on. A sole survivor - of the Old World, of the Vault, and if everything went to hell, the Railroad.

Charmer sniffed and blinked back the tears. She nodded weakly - she knew it was a lie, always had a nose for them with him - but if they could both pretend like they weren’t possibly walking to their deaths they might just be able to make it. “Just like Greenetech, right?”

Deacon beamed and squeezed her shoulder. “You got it, pal.”

They’d beaten impossible odds before. They’d do it again. They had to.

\--

A fog blanketed Boston. Skeletal remains of skyscrapers and rubble rose out of it like ghosts, their shadows looming overhead as Deacon and Charmer made their way through the city streets.

Charmer didn’t pause as she usually did, passed by the spots she’d always quietly mourned. There was no time. They dipped through cover, slipped along walls. Each one of his senses was heightened, listening for the sound of metallic footsteps and robotic voices. Every corner they rounded was a danger. Sometimes they heard gunfire in the distance, far off echoes of battle.

Deacon wondered how Glory and the Courier were managing. They all faced the same foes, but at least the two women had the advantage of home territory and the open outdoors. In Glory’s case, she also had a fucking minigun.

Their path remained lifeless. The partners drifted through the fog as if they were part of it, ghosting over the pavement. By the time Ticonderoga’s outline came into view, the fog had started to burn away. They were worryingly exposed as they crossed the bridge leading to the building. It seemed like only yesterday they’d crossed it with High Rise and H2-22 in tow - but when he’d thought of how little he and Charmer knew one another at the time, it felt like years.

The hollowed out lobby was similarly empty. Here the fog didn’t take hold. Charmer exchanged a hesitant look with him before hitting the call button on the elevator. They stood side by side - Deliverer clasped in her hands, his fingers ghosting over the pulse grenade in his pocket. Silence reigned. He listened to the sound of her breathing - slow, deep. Meditative breaths.

Deacon stood closer to her than he had to when the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. So far, things were downright placid. Charmer seemed relaxed now that they had made it to the elevator with no signs of battle. Maybe Ticonderoga was just in the same boat as HQ, maybe High Rise had wisely called in a quarantine at the first sight of synth patrols.

“I’ve got your back.” he leaned in to whisper in her ear, one last reassurance as the floor number climbed. 

The elevator slowed, then halted. A _ ding _. The doors slid open.

It was the smell that hit first. The lingering metallic of blood - too much blood - and the sickly scent of rot. They didn’t have a chance to process any of it, however, for they were instantly faced with the barrels of far too many laser rifles.

A lone Courser stood by the far wall, turned to face them with a blank expression upon his face. High Rise’s corpse lay at his feet, head haloed by dried blood.

“Intruder identified. This is a restricted area. Your arrival was not in the mission briefing. This irregularity will be reported to Justin Ayo.”

The courser had recognized Charmer, at least. That left him safe to swallow the emotions coming up in his throat alongside his stomach contents. The radio was still playing, a sunny melody playing over the utter devastation of the safehouse. An echo of an echo - memories overlaid on top of each other. So many dead. So many safehouses lost. Over, and over, and over. He absorbed the details all at once, and clung to the one bobbing, absurd thought that hovered safely away from insanity.

_ Some motherfucker named _ ** _Justin_ ** _ did this. _

“Go ahead.” Charmer replied with a lack of emotion that could match the Courser’s. Deacon went unnoticed, for now - in fact, the Courser was paying him as much heed as it was the Gen 1s tearing through the safehouse. “Tell him. Waste the time of the head of SRB by telling him that I went to investigate SRB activities on Father’s instruction. Tell him something he already knows, involving someone he _ cannot touch _. He’ll think you’re defective. Perhaps you are.”

The lingering threat in her voice would have made him proud if he were capable of anything but horror in the moment. Charmer - _ his _Charmer - stood eye to eye with a Courser and held her ground. She wore the mask of the unfeeling, tugged on the guise of the Institute. It was terrifying. If it weren’t for the telltale way her thumb nervously rubbed at the grip of Deliverer, he’d be tempted to believe her.

She came from a time that had birthed the Institute and all of its ideals. Acting the part didn’t seem like such a stretch.

Time was of the essence, however. He counted heads - in the immediate vicinity, he could make out six gen 1s in addition to the Courser. Deacon didn’t know how many more were on the other floors.

“Acknowledged.” The Courser backed down. Charmer had bought them some time. “Report: mission proceeding according to plan. Ambush set for Railroad targets. Prepared to reclaim any synths they possess.” 

The fucker spoke of their worst nightmare as if it was a menu option. Surrounded by the dead - friends and allies - with Doris Day chirping in the background. He wanted to laugh at the horrible dissonance of it all. Instead he bit his tongue hard enough to nearly draw blood.

“Excellent. I’m eager to read your report. Is it-” A minor slip up. Charmer caught herself in time - she’d nearly asked a synth permission to do something. Any evidence toward her true feelings was dangerous. Deacon wasn’t surprised that she’d collapsed on her return from the Institute. Cover this deep, when confronted by these horrors - it was something even he’d struggle to maintain after long enough. “I’m going to investigate the premises.”

“Yes, ma’am. The second unit has disabled the elevator according to procedure. You will have to exit through the stairwell.”

_ Second unit. Shit. _

Charmer didn’t respond to the Courser. She strode as quickly as she could to the ramp that led to the lower levels unused by the Railroad. He followed, desperate for a temporary escape from the horror show above.

An agent’s body lay face down at the bottom of the ramp, dead from two neat shots to the back of the skull. They stepped around him and did their best to look as if they were searching with purpose.

“We’re going with the light show.” Charmer murmured, barely audible. “Too many.”

They’d brought enough explosives to put a dent in Diamond City for a reason. Deacon nodded in silent agreement. Together, they rigged the level with nearly all of the explosives they’d pillaged from the armory. His heart pounded with every step he heard from above - neither he nor Charmer were particular experts in this particular field. A rush job was suicide.

“Halt.” A mechanical voice sounded from behind them. Charmer and Deacon froze, halfway through wiring a package of C4. He heard her swallow. They looked at each other, eyes wild.

In a fluid movement, Deacon turned and shot the Gen 1 behind them and Charmer took off at a sprint for the stairs. Chaos erupted behind him as he followed her. Footsteps clattered against the metal floors, soon followed by blue laser fire. The scar on his collarbone ached at the sight of it with remembered pain.

The Institute’s forces were too close behind them. They needed space, desperately, or their attempts to rig the upper floors to explode would be for nothing and they’d end up pincered between the Courser and the forces of the second unit below. 

Deacon pulled down filing cabinets and flipped over desks as they ran. Charmer picked up what he was doing and joined him, creating whatever barriers they could. They hit the stairwell with seconds to spare.

Charmer flung the door to it open and nearly slammed into the terminal on the opposite wall, frantically entering commands to start a lockdown. Deacon dragged an office chair with him and propped it up against the door when he slammed it shut, one last line of defense.

They heard metal hit metal. The door shook. Laser fire sounded, but for the moment the exit held. He heard a dull thud when Charmer had succeeded in engaging the magnetic lock.

“Go!”

They leapt over the banisters of the stairwell, hopping down the flights as fast as they could. Deacon counted floors as they passed them. Charmer had the detonator in hand. When they reached the ground floor, a _ boom _ from above signaled that their foes had breached the door. Blue laser fire streaked down towards them.

“I’m going to distract the second unit.” Deacon instructed quickly. “Pop a Stealth-Boy. Get to a safe distance before you hit the detonator, and I’ll follow.”

Charmer opened her mouth to protest, but a near miss by a beam of energy silenced her. He kicked open the door to the ground floor and threw out a pulse grenade.

Sure enough, a second unit of synths - and a second Courser - awaited them. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise from the surge of energy given off by the grenade’s explosion. A breeze of wind signaled that Charmer had done as he’d said and started her escape amidst the chaos. Deacon ran for cover and loosed a few more grenades. He counted down the seconds, hastily calculating how long it’d take Charmer to get to a safe distance, how long he had before he had to start running. 

Really, it was a crapshoot. Every second felt like a moment too long, but he held until at last he could be confident that she had made it. Deacon tossed the last of his pulse grenades in every direction he could manage and took off running while the Institute’s forces scrambled for cover.

He made it halfway across the street when pain seared across his calf. He stumbled. When he hit the ground, an ear splitting explosion ripped through the air.

Ticonderoga groaned her death knell. Flames burst through the windows of the upper floors. The ground shook as a deep rumble sounded from the tower. Deacon scrambled to his feet and kept running as Ticonderoga’s inner structure collapsed into a fiery inferno, turning the lobby - and the synth patrol within - to rubble. The dust cloud followed him as he ran, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

Charmer’s figure flickered into view with an electric crackle, her Stealth Boy expired. “Come on, Dee.” she panted and slung his arm around her shoulders. He leaned against her more heavily than he’d like. He didn’t look down. Didn’t want to see the damage just yet.

They’d beaten the odds again. Taken down two synth patrols, and given the Institute a final fuck-you on High Rise’s behalf. He was giddy. He couldn’t help but tighten his grip around her a little as they limped away. She looped her arm around his waist and gave it a squeeze. The euphoria of victory had taken over, burning away the horror like the day’s fog - if only just for now.

Another electric crackle sounded behind them. Deacon turned to see a bloodied figure in torn dark leathers. He had only a heartbeat to react to the realization that they had their backs to a fucking Courser.

“RUN!”

He shoved Charmer in front of him and did his best to shield her with his body. Searing burns peppered their way across his back. Deacon stumbled and fell to his knees, feeling the familiar warm wetness of his own blood spilling across his body. He tried to move forward and was rewarded by his body collapsing to the ground. His sunglasses cracked as his head hit the pavement.

Desdemona’s warnings echoed in his mind as he saw Charmer make the mistake that they so desperately tried to avoid. She didn’t run. Nausea and blood loss coiled in his mind in a sickening mixture. She didn’t want to leave him behind.

He wasn’t worth this. Nothing was worth this. Every little stolen moment with her seemed so selfish, so fruitless - if he’d stuck to his guns, maybe, maybe...

But she was glorious. Charmer stood with Deliverer in hand, like something out of an old western. She emptied a magazine into the Courser. It didn’t budge. The edges of his vision were starting to go dark, but not quickly enough. Deacon was all too conscious as he saw Charmer try to sprint for cover only to be driven to the ground by another burst of laser fire.

They lay only a few meters from each other on the pavement. Charmer gasped for breath, the air knocked out of her, in shock from the sudden pain. She was reaching out for him.

The two of them were spies, not soldiers. A dignified end, a magnificent end - that was too much to hope for.

Helplessly Deacon watched the Courser approach Charmer and raise its arm to adjust a device attached to it. He realized with horror that she wasn’t going to die - not here, anyways. The Institute awaited her, and a death more terrible than the one he was fated for. Desperately he struggled, tried to drag himself along the pavement. 

_ God, please. Not her. _

He heard Charmer whimper unintelligibly when the Courser turned its rifle back onto him. Deacon had murmured his prayer aloud and drawn the synth’s attention. He’d done nothing more than earn himself a quick death. He didn’t want her to see. 

_ Crack. _

The Courser’s head exploded in a shower of red. Its body fell to the ground unceremoniously. 

Deacon had never been a praying man. Maybe that meant that this rare time he had was destined to be answered. Whatever awaited them now, it wasn’t the Institute. That was enough.

He and Charmer stared at one another, crippled on the ground as they were. Her arms had been hit - she kept one curled toward her body, the other still extended toward him. Tears of pain flowed freely down her face. In the diffused sunlight trailing through the thin mist she didn’t look real. It felt like a dream.

“Dee.” she choked through the pain. His vision was growing blurrier. Charmer must have seen his eyes starting to lose their focus, because she repeated his name with more panic. “_ Deacon!” _

The last thing he remembered were clinking spurs and a flash of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologizing for the little gap in update with a wham of a chapter. Trying to get the snowballing right here!


	32. Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier's seen enough fortunes turn.

It felt like the Dam all over again. Endless battle through narrow alleys, a hundred near misses by her foe and a dozen lucky shots on her end. Battle was always a haze of adrenaline and terror, but with the day’s fog it felt like fighting in a dream. Only familiarity with the city saved her, for she couldn’t know what awaited her by sight alone. When they took the Dam a sandstorm raged, visibility similarly hindered - but here her foes were far more advanced than Legion shock troops.

She’d seen her first courser just over an hour before and had spent the next forty-five minutes engaged in a battle that would put the War to shame. The Courier sprinted around corners, laid explosives, threw herself into cover just in time to avoid a missile’s fireball. She’d given up on taking out the Gen 1s - with every wave she downed more materialized out of the air. Glory had warned her of the phenomena one night, when they’d made camp in a rooftop stairwell. It felt forever ago, with a courser hot on her heels.

It was fortune that felled it. She’d pulled her magnum when the thing drew close at last, the bullet meant to be something to remember her by. It tore through the courser’s left eye socket and left it in a heap on the ground. A shot through the head. Poetry, maybe.

Silence fell around her. At last she could catch her breath. Sunlight filtered down through the mists above, pale gold. The adrenaline haze left her, and her limbs felt strangely weightless. The euphoria of survival. 

It heightened the hollow feeling in her chest. Her surroundings were too dreamlike, reminding her of a presence that existed only in her unconscious mind.

The fog was clearing. It drew her back into reality, to the work she had yet to do. With clear sight lines, she’d be able to do what she did best. She slipped through the alleys to the nearest building with roof access. The climb up the stairs didn’t seem so difficult with the vestiges of victory still hanging about her.

Boston stretched before her when she reached the rooftop, the faded colorful paint of the skyscrapers a stark contrast against the pale sky. She paused to take in the sight, appreciating the small moments of beauty the world still offered her.

Faint laser fire cut through the silence. The Courier stiffened, listened for direction and checked her pip-boy.

Ticon. She’d only visited it the once, a quick stop-in with Glory, but she knew enough to know that it would prove a tantalizing target for the Institute if ever it were to be discovered.

She raced across the rooftops, chasing the sound of distant fire. She arrived at Ticonderoga just in time to watch it collapse. Her heart sank.

As was habit, she scouted the area through her rifle scope and sighted three figures just in time to watch one of them get gunned down. The other figure nearly ran, but thought better of it. A weak defense was made, and the second figure joined the first on the ground, leaving a single dark silhouette standing.

So she saw her second courser.

It was much the same as the previous one. The faces were different, but the mannerisms were uncannily similar. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it as the mists shifted. She pinned the courser’s head in her sights in the brief moment the fog cleared about him.

_ Cottonwood Overlook. She raised her rifle and beheld the Hill through her scope. Narrated a plan. He was silent at her side. They couldn’t shoot them all. They might not make it out alive. But they’d shoot Caesar first. _

_ Never before had she felt just in ending a life. Never before had she felt the rush of righteousness.  _

When she took the shot, the Courier wondered if it was the reason she’d been allowed to live for so long.

The feeling when she pulled the trigger was a familiar one. She watched the body fall through her sights, then made a scramble for the fire escape.

\--

It was her turn to play the resurrector.

The Railroad’s best agents lay bleeding on the pavement before her.

Charmer was who the Courier came to first, only a few metres further forward than her partner. She’d taken fire across her upper torso. Her arms had been shot, defensive wounds from trying to shield her core. Judging by the sound of her wheezing the Courier figured she’d gotten a punctured lung for her trouble. Blood was everywhere, of course - it always was. The paint of the Wasteland.

“Help him.” Charmer gasped, her arm reaching out to the still form of her partner. 

Deacon was in worse shape. He’d taken a spray across the back and thighs. Most of the blood was his, the Courier realized belatedly. It was streaming steadily out of a smoking hole in his leg.

Triage, Arcade called it. The decision to save a life made simple and efficient. She dredged up every last bit of medical knowledge she’d had and a wealth of memories in the field to try and figure out a plan of action.   


Four hands were better than two. Charmer was beat up, but by her reckoning would make it to HQ after some quick field medicine. The Courier would need the extra help in aiding Deacon - and even then, she wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

It didn’t go down well with Charmer. She tried to fight the Courier when she tugged her shirt up far enough to get at her wounded ribcage, burned hands weakly trying to push the other woman away. The Courier ignored her, ignored the panicked demands to see to Deacon first. A jab from a stimpack, tape wrapped around Charmer’s wound to try and keep the air out of her chest cavity, and an injection of med-x was all the Courier could offer her.

The Courier pressed another stimpack into Charmer’s hand. “When the painkillers hit, help me.” she instructed, then turned to the Railroad’s oldest agent.

He was pale from blood loss. Deacon’s shades had shattered - a shard of glass was embedded in his cheek. His eyes were fluttering between half open and closed, his breathing similarly stuttered. 

“Fuck.” she muttered. All she could do was put a makeshift tourniquet together above the bleeding wound on his thigh. Halfway through tying it Charmer dragged herself over and started to help, adding a couple stimpacks of her own to the mix.

The Courier couldn’t look at her. The panic on her face, the dread - she’d seen it so many times before, felt it so many times before. She couldn’t do it again.

“Deacon.” Charmer’s voice was firm. The woman placed a hand to the side of her partner’s face, slapped it, tried her best to nudge him back to consciousness. “Dee. You’ve got to stay awake. Stay with me.  _ Stay with me. _ ” Panic edged back into her voice. “You promised.”

Deacon groaned. Further gunfire sounded in the distance.

“We’ve got to go.” The Courier dug her arms under the man and heaved him over her back in a fireman’s carry. He was heavy, a little taller than she was - but she’d carried heavier than him before.

_ “Should have let me die.” he rasped. She held her canteen to his lips. _

_ “The world’s not done with you. Not done with me, either.” she replied. He drank, green eyes hazy. _

_ “You’d be fine on your own.” _

_ “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I want it.” _

_ He couldn’t keep his expression cold now. “What do you want?” _

_ She’d never forget the look in his eyes. Words left unsaid. _

\--

Charmer faded fast. A trip through Boston with a fast-collapsing lung wasn’t one she was built for, all pre-War softness. Then again, it wasn’t one most wastelanders were built for, either. She remained conscious just long enough for the three of them to enter HQ. The Courier screamed for aid just as the Railroad’s secret weapon collapsed.

Drummer Boy and Carrington lifted her to the collection of mattresses that served as the resident clinic. The Courier followed with Deacon across her shoulders. Battered tarps hung around the area, to shield the other agents from the horrors the Institute inflicted on their brethren. They still stared, wide-eyed, as their best were brought behind the bloodied curtains.

The Courier remained, pulled up a chair. She didn’t know how to help, but she could bear witness. Carrington’s hands were steady, even when his breathing wasn’t. The man was afraid. His focus was entirely on his patients - he didn’t have the time to dismiss onlookers. Drummer Boy and Tinker Tom gathered by the curtain’s edge and stared as Carrington got IV lines going and stitched flesh back together.

Time passed. Glory’s return was signalled by her raised voice, tinged with panic. “What happened? Tom?” She elbowed past the two men and stopped in her tracks. Relief washed over her features when her eyes fell on the Courier, but it was soon replaced by fury when she realized who laid on the mattresses.

Together they held vigil. At last, Carrington exhausted his supplies and expertise. Blood covered his hands and arms. Charmer and Deacon remained unconscious, but breathing. A testament to Carrington’s skill - and why the Railroad suffered his bristly personality.

It returned with his work complete. “This isn’t a show.” He hissed at those gathered by the ‘clinic’ entrance. Tinker Tom and Drummer Boy fast made themselves scarce, but Glory remained. For the first time, the Courier saw worry on her face.

“They’re going to make it, right?”

Carrington peeled off his bloodied gloves. “Time will tell. You won’t help them by staying here.” He cast a disapproving look at the Courier.

“You’re needed more than we are.” The Courier replied. She remained seated. “I’ll keep watch.”

The appeal to his ego worked. Carrington huffed and scrubbed down using water in a rusty bucket. Unideal. Wasteland medicine. “Keep visitors at a low. We can’t risk morale. I’ll inform Desdemona.” For once his tone lacked resentment. Things were too critical to bear a grudge.

Glory waited until he left before stepping inside. She hazarded a glance at Charmer, who’d regained some color, but most of her attention was reserved for Deacon. 

“Feels wrong, to see him like this.” she observed. “Never seen him without the shades on. Or… this bad.” Glory wasn’t a woman skilled with words, but her tone was heavy. She rested her palm on his forearm, doing her best not to nudge the IV line. “No matter how bad things get, he’s always been there saying some annoying shit to remind us it’s not the end of the world.”

“He’s not dead, Glory.” The Courier spoke softly. It felt foreign on her lips.

Glory snorted, smiled half heartedly. “Yeah. I’m being stupid. Glad he’s unconscious, ‘cause he’d never let me hear the end of it if he heard me say that.” She looked over to Charmer again. “At least she’s looking better. Don’t know what the fuck we’d do without her. You see what went down?”

“They blew Ticon.” She’d been trying to figure out how best to word it, how to break the news to Glory in the best way - and in the end, she’d settled on the bare truth. “Courser made it out of the rubble, I guess. Got him-” she jerked a thumb in Deacon’s direction. “-and she didn’t run. I got there in time to pop the courser.”

“They - Ticon…” Her processing of the information was visible, silver brow furrowing, her hands clenching. “Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ ” In a swift motion Glory stormed back into HQ proper, leaving the Courier on her own. She was tempted to follow, but from what she knew of Glory it was best to let her work out her fury and grief on her own.

The Courier settled in. She’d woken up in clinics on her own enough times to know it was best not to inflict the experience on others. For once, she was the guide waiting on the other side.

\--

Charmer awoke first. Bleary eyed and pumped full of med-x, she tried to pull out her IV and stand. The Courier was there to put a stop to it.

“Deacon-” was the first word out of her mouth, when the Courier pushed her back onto the mattress. 

“Is here.” The Courier didn’t want to lie and say he was fine, but she did what she could to keep Charmer still. Her head lolled to the side, staring at the man across from her. 

The sight was reassuring enough, it seemed, for Charmer’s next request was a polite one. “I have to talk to Desdemona. I’ve got to-”

“I’ll go get her.  _ Stay here. _ You move too much and we’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble.” 

Charmer nodded guilelessly. Too addled to deceive - at least, the Courier hoped so. She stood - back stiff, legs sore from sitting so long - and weaved her way over to PAM’s chamber, HQ’s new center of operations amidst the new influx of people.

She found Glory arguing with Desdemona.

“-can’t just let them  _ do this _ . They’re still out there, we’ve got sightings all over, let me fucking-”

“ _ No _ , Glory. The immediate area is secure. We have until they discover their squads here were lost, and then we strike. Until then, we wait. Striking without our full force is suicide, and if we pick any more of their patrols off they’ll see us for the threat we are.” Desdemona sounded tired. “Courier!” She was grateful for her arrival, it seemed - the Courier wondered how long the two had been at it.

“Charmer’s awake. She asked for you.”

Dez gave Glory a stern look before sweeping out of the room. The two women trailed after her.   
  
HQ had entered into stasis. The tension in the air was so thick it could be cut with a knife. With coursers roaming every agent who didn’t absolutely have to be on the road was now bunking down in the crypt. Some sharpened blades, others repaired guns. Those that weren’t keeping busy murmured amongst themselves.

Tinker Tom managed to do both, raving about his latest theories to any who would listen while making adjustments to a device at his worktable. “I  _ saw _ it, man. His eyes. I thought he didn’t have any behind those shades, but no, they exist - but they weren’t open, so could they be implants? Synthetic? Institute could’ve gotten to him and Charmer out there. They’ve got advanced enough tech to fool Carrington-”

“TOM.” Desdemona shouted when they came within earshot. Tom glanced up in sudden fright, like a scolded child. 

“Alright, alright…” He raised his hands in surrender. “I was just - Glory!” He exclaimed at the sight of their best heavy. “Come here, I’ve been working on something for you.”

Glory rolled her eyes and gave the Courier an apologetic look before leaving their party. The allure of one of Tom’s gadgets was hard to resist. She didn’t blame her.

Dez didn’t break her stride. “Stress is getting to us all.” she murmured. “It’ll be good for him when this is done.” 

She batted aside the tarp shielding the medical area and stepped inside. Like Glory, she was brought to a halt mid-step at the sight of Deacon’s prone form. The Courier watched her brow twitch, the corner of her mouth quiver. It was fast becoming apparent that while Charmer had been the catalyst for this operation, Deacon was its keystone.

Dez quickly shifted gears, however. She offered Charmer a gentle smile. “I’m sorry.” she began, and pulled up the chair the Courier had been sitting in previously. “Things like this are a risk of the job, but… I was hoping your luck would hold. What happened to Ticon?”

Charmer pushed herself up on her elbows. She winced when she managed to sit upright, hand instinctively moving to the bandages around her ribcage. “The worst.” Her voice was weak. “The Institute wiped everyone out, reclaimed the synths. They had two units there to intercept any more runners with packages who didn’t know what was happening. Too many for us to handle alone, so we blew it.”

The Railroad’s leader inhaled deeply and lowered her gaze to the floor. “So it’s true. Another safehouse burned. High Rise was a good man.” Her shoulders slumped back. “So many good men.”

“I have to go back inside.” 

Desdemona studied Charmer, looking as if she was about to argue - but ended up nodding in defeat. “You do. We need you to use that code you and the Courier picked up - and maybe you can buy us some time. Ticon’s loss - this changes things. We’ll have to reroute.”

“With her injuries?” The Courier cut in. “Getting shot to pieces after they lose coursers who  _ happen _ to be sniffing around our headquarters seems mighty suspicious.”   
  
Desdemona frowned in consideration.

Charmer, however, laughed humorlessly, wincing from the pain it clearly caused. “Look, down there - they’re terrified of the outdoors. I don’t plan on them knowing I’m injured, but even if they end up being able to tell they’ll buy any story about bumping into wasteland thugs that I give them.” Her voice was bitter. “They hate us. For all the bullshit about a ‘better future for mankind’, they don’t think we deserve it. Don’t think we’ll understand it. Everything up here is worthless to them.” The hatred in her eyes matched the hate she spoke of.

A familiar hate. Delving back into the Institute was bad for Charmer, that much was clear. The Courier had seen the aftermath of the first time at the cottage on the coast. She’d had a taste of the same feeling once, surrounded by her foes in a pit of vipers, all doing their very best to be ‘welcoming’. 

The difference was that the Courier had shot her way back out of Fortification Hill, and Caesar was not her son.

Even she had to admit Charmer was right, however. They needed more time. The woman’s psyche would be sacrificed for the Railroad’s success. Such was their fate.

“Okay.” Desdemona agreed. “Get the code to the target. Do whatever you can to get them off of our trail. Take whatever you need, same as before.” She took Charmer’s hand into her own and gave it a squeeze. Den mother to the end. “Most importantly - be careful. I’ll get Carrington to make sure you’re in the best shape you can be.” 

Charmer only had eyes for Deacon once Desdemona released her hand and stood. The man was still out cold, though at least his breathing had steadied. 

“I’ll stay here while you get the good doctor.” The Courier said quietly. She intended to do more than keep watch, while she still had the opportunity. Given how fortunes were shifting, it might be her last chance to give Charmer advice.

Dez merely nodded. She lit up another cigarette on her way out, leaving behind wisps of smoke in her wake. The Courier took her chair.

“You didn’t run.” she said flatly. That pulled Charmer’s attention away from Deacon’s still form.

Her eyes narrowed. “No. Are you going to scold me for it?”

“No.” The Courier repeated, leaning back. “I’d do the same. We’re both fools.” She itched for a cigarette of her own. “Way I see it, odds are good we won’t be able to talk like this again. I’ve got different advice for you now.”

The other woman didn’t bristle. Part of what gave her the codename, likely. She was good at listening, never seemed to mind advice whether or not she intended to take it. 

With the lack of argument, the Courier continued. “I remember being in this place. Not literally, but... “ She shrugged. “You and I are kindred spirits. I’ve been here. On the precipice, on the cliff, just waiting to jump down to a changed world. I went in blind. Didn’t have anyone to tell me the mistake I made until after the fact. So I’ll tell you what that man told me, in the heart of the Divide.”

The sound outside the clinic seemed to fade. The two women sat eye to eye, connected beyond what either of them could truly comprehend. Chosen by fate. Cursed.   


“Know what you follow, even if it’s nothing at all. Wear it proudly.” The Courier knew now what it was Ulysses had tried to say, all those years ago. The warning given too late. She added a warning of her own. “When it’s over, you won’t be human anymore. You won’t be  _ you _ anymore. Parts of you aren’t already. How many people here know what you are? How many can understand?”

The Courier knew the moment she spoke what Charmer’s first thought would be, and her shifting gaze confirmed it. The unconscious man. Her partner. Would he fail her, she wondered. Did he care for the figurehead or the woman, if he could care at all?

“The legend will swallow whatever you are, for most people. Whatever they see after will only disappoint, because you’re a woman, not an idea. Be ready.” 

Charmer didn’t take her eyes off of Deacon when she spoke. “If you had to do it again - would you? Or would you run?”

The Courier stared at the wall. Would she chase Benny across the desert? Enact her vengeance and become entangled in the fate of the Mojave? Or would she leave it to its fate, to Benny’s image, or Caesar’s, if he failed?

In her hubris she had thought her image of the Mojave was best. For years, she had thought it, known it - but Charmer’s question disarmed her. For all she hated herself for it, enough to wander the desert, her answer contradicted her every action.

“I’d do it again.” she admitted, and the hollow in her heart grew greater. Unleashed. The Courier had forgiven herself, knew that even now the path she took would be a similar one. An independent Vegas, maybe, but her fate would be the same. In love with a ghost, unneeded by the people she’d bled for. She couldn’t hate herself for the inevitable. It was a relief and a horror all at once.

Charmer nodded slowly, gaze traveling down Deacon’s form. Desdemona and Carrington’s footsteps approached. “Then I know what I have to do.” At last, she tilted her head to look back at the Courier. “I’ve already seen the end of the world. What happens after this - it can’t be worse.”

The Courier smiled weakly. “I hope it isn’t.” she said softly. She moved to stand, but Charmer caught her arm.

“Courier.” Her voice was soothing. Motherly. “You’re too young to throw your life away. Start living.”    
  
She released her arm just as Desdemona and Carrington entered the makeshift clinic. The Courier dipped her head before making her departure.

\--

“This is bullshit.”

Glory sat beside her on the mattress recently vacated by Charmer. There wasn’t much else to do but stare at Deacon and wait for him to wake up - or die. 

Drummer Boy had poked his head in, but the sight of Deacon’s still form was too distressing for him to stay around long. Carrington didn’t much seem to care now - he’d done all he could, and now his attention was on matters both too important and too mundane for the Courier to worry about. 

She’d taken to Charmer’s mattress shortly after she left for the Institute just to escape from the idle tension of HQ. Glory had joined her not too long ago and launched on a rant about the ridiculousness of the situation.

The Courier sharpened her combat knife on a whetstone. “You’re not used to waiting, are you?” she observed, finding Glory’s impatience somewhat endearing.

“My entire life at the Institute was waiting. Waiting for something better. Now I’m back at square one.” Glory scoffed and folded her toned arms. “I don’t know why we’re not out on patrol or at least running escort duty. You might be a greenhorn, but I’m a vet when it comes to this shit. No way we’d tip anyone off.”

She knew where this was going. Glory wanted to slip out again. The Courier understood - she knew High Rise's death had her rattled, and staring at his name crossed out in chalk wasn't helping her mood.  


“We’d tip everyone here off. You want to get grounded before the big raid?” The Courier polished her blade on her shirt before holding it up to the light, peering at the world reflected in its edge.

“No, but…” Glory tilted her head. “Wanted a big celebration before we headed out. Give you something to smile about. Don’t think staring at D-man in a coma is the best date.”

She chuckled. “Could be worse. We could be him.”

The synth sighed and stretched out her legs. “Guess so. At least he’s unconscious. Doesn’t have to deal with all the waiting. Fucker. You think he planned it out this way?”

“Who knows.” The Courier shrugged.

Truthfully, she appreciated the wait. In hindsight, the hours of boredom were the most treasured.

For when battle came, those she spent those moments with were taken by it.


	33. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon lingers.

The soft hush of razorgrain in the wind met his ears. 

In a heartbeat, the world before him popped into being, springing forth from the darkness that had lingered.

Here again.

The scenery was familiar, for it plagued his dreams. For too long he had evaded it - it seemed only reasonable that now it returned to him.

A house on a hill, razorgrain covering the slopes and waving gently, turned gold in the setting sun. Shadows cast by the branches of a great dead oak on the house’s east side. The sight that awaited him there was usually a horrible one - this time, however, the rope was cut. 

Deacon could never jolt himself awake in this place. It was his burden to bear witness, to be forcefully confronted with the truth of what he truly was. The darkness at his heart, and the ruin it had wrought.

He knew the steps by heart. The wind kissed his face as he began his ascent up the hill, the air warm and gentle. He stretched his arms out, let the tips of the razorgrain brush his palms. The sensation was real, too real - kept him firmly anchored to the present. Long ago he’d learned the results of letting his mind wander in this place. Something to be avoided at all costs.

There was nothing at the foot of the tree when he crested the hill. No body. No message. No sight meant to shake him to his senses. 

This was different.

Warmth washed over him with another gust of wind. He raised his hand to shield his eyes and surveyed the landscape below, turning slowly in a circle. The dead grass that turned to brush before the forest that had shielded the house, the beaten path that led toward the creek. Paradise intact. Untouched. It was all just as he’d remembered it, safe from any distortion of nightmare. As if he’d stepped back in time.

Home. 

Deacon stood amidst the swaying grain and forgot time, lost in the scent of the sweet summer air and fertile earth. He’d have lost himself entirely, if not for a nagging pull at the back of his mind.

This was all a trick, it always was. He just had to find the horror, and the world would crumble before him.

Entering the house was a nerve wracking prospect, but still he placed his hand on the battered screen door. It creaked as he remembered when he pulled it open. 

Inside the one-room farmhouse was the same. A few dishes piled in the sink, an empty nuka-cola bottle serving as flower vase on the kitchen window. The old bookcase stuffed to bursting at the wall opposite the kitchen table, Barbara’s sewing strewn across it. His footsteps were muffled by the rugs on the old wooden floor that she’d hand woven. Their bed - a humble thing with a rusting metal frame - was unmade, as it had been that morning so many years ago. 

It was frozen in time. That last perfect memory before it all fell apart around him, the last moment he’d seen her alive. The only thing missing was her, half asleep in bed and lazily waving a goodbye.

Deacon stepped back outside, at a loss. Never before had he been allowed to explore so much, never before had things made  _ sense _ . There were no alien geometries, no repeating landscapes, nothing that spoke of the constructions of a fractured mind.

It took him longer than he’d like to remember the time before this one - where he had been before this place. Pain was the first memory, springing forth in sharp relief. It threatened to override anything else, drowned out shapes and sensation.

Charmer’s face. His body growing cold. Blood everywhere.

He realized he’d stopped breathing. Had he been breathing in the first place?

Was this heaven, then? He didn’t deserve it. Hell, maybe - but of all the chances this place had to torture him, it’d dodged them all. 

Purgatory it was.

His footsteps were heavy down the deck steps. There were worse places to spend eternity, he supposed. It was a fitting location. Whatever put him here had a sense of justice.

There was nothing else to do but to wander. Deacon began to circle the old farmhouse, reached out to feel the peeling paint on the wooden siding. Could he paint it over again, he wondered - could he slowly enact change in this world of his own? Did he want to?

Rounding the corner to the back of the farmhouse, his mind and his feet ceased function.

A figure sat in the dead grass, feminine and slight, attention focused on the landscape behind the house. She had no hair - no, she just didn’t have any features around her head. It was blurred, as if a mote of dust had stuck in his eye every time he tried to look at it. Her dress was a faded blue, her skin the mottled tone he remembered. The rope hung loose around her neck.

Barbara.

She turned to face him, and the landscape in front of her disappeared, turned to darkness like a black curtain had been drawn over it. Conversely the grass beneath his feet turned greener than he’d ever seen, as it never was in life. The siding of the house shone white with fresh paint.

Deacon stared at his wife. This time, he did not feel fear, nor pain, nor sadness. Not even affection. Her appearance finally represented what she had become to him, what he had hated himself for. The curse of time. She was an idea, a scar, faceless and sharp.

“It’s been some time.” Barbara spoke. In these dreams, he never remembered her voice - whatever she said was soundless, a thought placed into his head. This time, though, she had two voices instead of none. The Courier’s and Glory’s, intertwined in a strange harmony. Barbara patted the grass next to her.

“I’m sorry.” He said thickly, tongue tripping over itself. His steps were leaden and not entirely in his control. Deacon settled down heavily on the grass next to her, the eternal void only a few inches in front of him. It wasn’t unsettling. Like the rest of this place, he accepted it as something that just  _ was _ .

“Of course you are.” Barbara sounded amused. “That hasn’t changed.” 

“The rest has.” Deacon was having difficulty trying to respond. Putting his thoughts together was like catching mist in his hands. “We’ve never talked.”

“No, we haven’t.” Barbara picked a blade of grass and spun it between grey fingertips. “Have you figured it out yet?”

“I’m dead.” 

A chuckle, with Glory’s warmth and the Courier’s dry rasp. “Close. You could be. Or couldn’t be. Your choice.”

“My choice? Didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It is now. Maybe it’s a spiritual experience. Or maybe this is your brain’s way of telling you that your body’s going to give out if you don’t do something about it.”

She didn’t talk like Barbara did. It wasn’t just the voice that was wrong, her cadence wasn’t right either, he didn’t remember her choice of words-

“You don’t remember anything but the corpse, John.” It was as if she’d read his mind. His name felt like a slap to the face. “I’m you. I know what’s going on in that head of yours, because it’s what’s making me talk right now.”

“Not much of a spiritual experience.”

“Tell that to Narcissus.” Barbara chuckled again. She scooted herself closer to the edge of the void and let her legs dangle over the side of the hill. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the darkness. “It’s not your fault. Forgetting, I mean. The rest…” The blur of her head moved, tilted toward the old oak tree, now filled with rustling leaves.

“...Is my fault.” Deacon finished, though he didn’t know why he’d bothered. He remained where he was, a fair distance from the ledge.

“I know why you’re afraid of heights.” she began, swinging her legs in an almost childlike fashion. “ _ l’Appel du Vide, _ the French call it. You read it in a book somewhere, and I don’t know if that’s how you’re supposed to say it. ‘The Call of the Void’. Every time you’re up there, you get the strangest urge to throw yourself off the side. That’s what scares you. Not the fall, not the impact. The feeling.”

“Thought I was here to decide if I was going to live or die, not be told things I know about myself.”

“The things you hide from. You don’t want to feel. Always have a million excuses and reasons why it’s just not in the cards. Oh, yes, you’re not doing what you did before, but it’s the same shit now.” Barbara raised a hand when he opened his mouth to argue. “I’m not here to scold you, or tell you what to do. So, fine, you want to make the decision.” 

Deacon swallowed. As she spoke, the true gravity of his situation hit him. He was  _ dying _ . These were either the last fevered misfirings of his brain or he was hanging on by a thread. Both options were unsettling - but he didn’t feel dread. It was hard to remember negative emotions here, let alone feel them.

Barbara swept her hand over the void in front of them. “Option one. You throw yourself in. Option two: this place. A life as it would have been before the War - no radiation, no death. Life as you read it in all those novels. What you’ve seen on holotape and heard pre-War ghouls chatter about. And me, of course - not like this, but your best guess. It’s not heaven. You’ll know the truth - that it’s not real. What you did. But it’s as close as you’ll ever get.”

Deacon turned his head slowly, looking between the darkness and a home he’d fantasized of for as long as he could remember. “This mean I want to die?”

A trill of laughter. She rested her cold hand on his knee. “It just means that life is uncertain. It could be worse, beyond that veil. Could be better. I can’t say that I’ll be what’s awaiting you next time.” Her tone remained light and airy. Her hand slipped away from him, leaving a clammy feeling in its place. “But you’ll have to jump.”

Deacon dropped his gaze to the stalks of grass, gleaming emerald in the sun and twinkling with every gentle breeze. He breathed in the scent of home, the memories it brought forth of grave dust numbed. Whatever awaited him on the other side wasn’t this. He didn’t know if he’d see it again.

“If you don’t choose, things will be chosen for you.” Barbara’s voice was all the Courier. She withdrew from the ledge and stood. “Whatever you do - make sure it’s you.” 

Her bare feet padded against the grass, fading as she walked to the house. 

With every passing moment he felt his limbs grow heavier. Behind him was everything he’d wanted, the best he could hope for. Beyond was the unknown. He’d done all he could, hadn’t he? He was an old man. Deacon stood with great effort, feeling as if his limbs had rusted.

And yet - it was a decision he’d consciously refused for just as long as he’d desired it. He couldn’t surrender. Used to be he’d done it because he didn’t think he deserved the peace, but now? 

He had unfinished business.

Deacon stood at the edge of the void. He took a few steps backward, relishing the feeling of the sun.

Then he sprinted forward as far as his useless legs could carry him, throwing himself from the ledge. The darkness swallowed him whole, and he lost all sensation.

Unfinished business.

Wasn’t that what made ghosts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section felt strange combined with anything else, so here's another little interlude. And a title drop. Finally. There's actually meaning behind it for once!


	34. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first die is cast.

The scent of dust and damp. Old brick. Sweat. Lingering gunpowder. 

Sound came next. Footsteps, scattered traces of conversation. A crowd, maybe. Slow breathing nearby.

Deacon opened his eyes, and the world before him was clean and bare. It was the first thing he’d noticed. He didn’t have his glasses. The stone ceiling of HQ stared back down at him.

A rustling noise came from his left. “Oh, shit!” Glory. Her face soon took up his frame of view, beaming from ear to ear. “Hey! Good morning sunshine!”

His body still felt like it was made of lead. An attempt was made to move his arm. It budged, if only a little. Next, his feet. He saw the blanket over him move in affirmation. Not paralyzed. Good. 

“Careful.” The Courier’s voice drifted in from the left, where the rustling had come from. “Carrington’s got you on enough med-x to knock out a bighorn. Wouldn’t try walking yet if I were you.”

Deacon blinked. Glory was still staring down at him, a slightly awed look on her face. He realized she was staring at his eyes. He squeezed them shut in protest.

“H’long was I out?” he slurred, putting aside his ire at being drugged. From what little he could remember, he’d needed it.

“Ten hours.” The Courier answered.

“Charms?”

He could practically hear Glory’s smirk in her tone. “Woke up seven hours ago.”

That was enough to get him to open his eyes. He made his best effort to sit up, to Glory’s consternation.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Deeks-” She gripped his arms and forced him back down to the mattress. “Calm down. There’s a whole lot of fuckin’ nothing going on here right now, no need to rush.”

For a moment, he’d thought he’d actually died. “... put that on a list of things I never thought I’d hear you say.”

Her booming laugh was enough to solidify in his mind that he’d made the right decision in sticking around. “I guess the Courier’s rubbing off on me. Snipers and patience. You know.”

“I’ll grab Carrington. See if he can sober you up. Should probably let Dez know you’re up, too.” The Courier said awkwardly. Glory disappeared from view. The two women murmured to each other, but he couldn’t make anything out.

Creaking bed springs sounded from his left. Deacon turned his head at last. Another bed sat across from his, and Glory had seated herself upon it. 

“Where’s Charmer?” He’d meant to play it cool, but trying to wrangle any amount of subtlety was beyond him.

“If you try to get up again I’m going to knock you back out.” Glory warned - already setting poor expectations for the truth. “She went back to the Institute. Still has to get my brothers and sisters out. Courier says Dez said something about running interference for us.”

His body failed him, the med-x too strong to let him leap to his feet. Internally, he screamed, but when he spoke his tone remained even. “Dez thought going back was a good idea after Ticon?”

Glory shrugged. “Not like there’s anything else to do around here.” Priorities skewed, as always. “Guess we’re all still alive, so whatever she’s doing over there is working.”

“That bad?”

“You bet. Courier took out a courser and fuck knows how many Gen 1s.” She spit, bitter at the necessity. “Two coursers, I guess, counting the one that messed you up. I caught a couple outside Dayton and pulled a regular patrol away from Mercer. City’s crawling with them. Dez has us all cooped up and, oh, no one thought to bring in any liquor when they hauled in supplies, so that’s great.”

“Rubbing alcohol counts in a pinch.” Deacon observed dryly, and Glory laughed again.

“If things get that desperate, you bet.” A pause. “Things were touch and go for a bit, you know. I’m glad you’re awake.”

“God, if you're getting mushy on me I must've been a horror show." He stuck his tongue out exaggeratedly, as if the little glimmer of fondess she showed disgusted him. She rolled her eyes at him. "Hey, though. Me too.” 

It was the truth.

\--

An hour later, and he was groggily eating Cram from the can, seated by Tom’s work station. The mark from his IV was bandaged over and a dull pain surfaced as the heavier dosage of med-x wore off. He could move now, at least - though his motor skills weren’t yet as fine as he’d like. 

Desdemona had only stuck her head in long enough to give him an approving nod - though the sight of his bare eyes kept her a few moments longer than needed. The agents that could recognize him without his shades had a similar reaction. It annoyed him a little.

Had he been wearing the glasses that long? 

Tinker Tom found him a new pair pretty quickly, at least. Not before he’d interrogated Deacon in an attempt to find out if the Institute got to him first, but that was par for the course with the man. It was worth having something shielding his eyes again. He watched Tom work, hurriedly modifying and repairing the weapons they had. Preparing for an all out assault.

Deacon’s stomach twisted, the memory of him and Charmer lying on the pavement still very fresh in his mind. None of them were soldiers. The Railroad was a slapdash mix of settlers, refugees, traders. The common people who wanted to do  _ something _ but didn’t know how to start. They’d done amazing things, discovered talents in each other previously unknown. Passion had helped them do the impossible. But it was all because they played to their strengths - subterfuge, secrecy. Blending in. 

They were making ready to do what none of them were prepared for. Tom informed him that Dez had promoted any agent who was willing to heavy. Glory had taken to instructing a few of them, but her patience didn’t last long. He tried not to think too hard about their chances. 

Drummer Boy joined him after a while, a box of Fancy Lads in hand. While Deacon licked icing sugar from his hands Drummer Boy filled him in on how Carrington looked worried for the first time in his life while patching him up. The newfound knowledge was almost as sweet at the icing.  _ Old Stanley does care. _

Glory was right. There was fuck-all to do. He watched Desdemona anxiously move around HQ, checking in on plans, ensuring morale was up. She drifted into PAM’s chamber several times, and each time she returned her gaze was steelier and steelier.

Time dragged on. He napped. The pain of his medication wearing off woke him up a few more hours later. He got another dose from Carrington and sat back down on his mattress by the backdoor just in time to catch Charmer jogging back in.

Her movements were different. She was favoring her one side - he could see a wrinkle in her shirt where it shouldn’t have been, suggesting bandages underneath. Her skin was paler than usual, the circles under her eyes darker. Deacon wondered if he looked much the same.

Charmer rushed over. She was breathless, strands of her hair loosed from her ponytail. In a heartbeat she was kneeling in front of him, her hands on each side of his face. They were warm. Soft. His mind went blanker than med-x could ever hope to achieve. She pulled him to her chest and pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Thank god.” Her voice surrounded him, her arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. It filled him with joy and fear. He was comforted and suffocated, wanted to melt into her and flee all at once. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” His voice was muffled against her. Sensation was starting to overwhelm him. He needed an out. "Uh. Remember how I told you I wasn't the hugging type?" 

As quickly as she had pulled him in she released him. Her lip quivered. She seemed as torn as he was. “They know about Bunker Hill.”

Deacon plastered on his best smile, a reflex to the ice that had flooded his veins. “Help me up and I’ll get you to Dez.” 

\--

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

Desdemona rarely swore. It was a testament to her composure that it took the Institute bearing down on Bunker Hill to finally get it out of her. 

“I have to lead the strike team.” Charmer continued, voice still clipped and breathless. She inhaled shallowly - he watched her throat twitch with every sudden movement. He knew her too well by now to believe her charade, knew that every abnormality spoke to the pain she hid. 

It was the same show he was putting on. A duet of duplicity.

Desdemona lit another cigarette. She’d burned through a pack already - he swore there was a fine cloud of smoke forming near the ceiling by now. “We can’t risk your cover, but we can’t lose those synths.” 

The implication settled over them all like the smoke Desdemona exhaled. 

“I pray our need for sacrifices is almost over. Let your group get close. Once you’re in the tunnel system, turn on them. No survivors. Except for you.” She pointed her cigarette at Charmer to punctuate her point. “Say we had more underground than they thought. Bad intel. Your story won’t have to last long - if we’re lucky it won’t have to last the week now that PATRIOT’s synths are armed.”

“Are you sure we can’t warn them?” Charmer’s voice was too small for her, too quiet. She’d faced bad results and the loss of good people before - but now the scale had multiplied. 

Deacon wished he could shield her from it. Wished that it could have been anyone but her. All he could offer was the grim truth in the lightest manner possible. “They’ll be watching it like a deathclaw watches its nest before we get there. If they even suspect we’re trying to bring in reinforcements, they’ll know you snitched.” 

“We? Deacon, you can barely walk.” Desdemona said quickly. “I’d keep Charmer in recovery with you if it was an option. You won’t do any good dead - there’ll be a courser there at the very least-”

“Which is why I’m going. Charms isn’t any good to us dead, either. Two guns are better than one.” He saw Charmer open her mouth to argue with him. He continued before she could. “Please.” Begging wasn’t his favorite option, but he’d take it if he had to. “If I have to listen to Glory bitch about how bored she is any longer I might actually go insane.”

Charmer’s expression softened. She saw his joke for what it was - knew him enough to be familiar with the smokescreen. It terrified him. 

“You’re lucky we don’t have time to argue. Fine.” He’d feel guilty about the resignation in Dez’s tone if he hadn’t just gotten what he’d wanted. “Just - be safe. We can’t fall apart now.”

Deacon beamed. “If it makes you feel better I’ll steal a super stimpak from Carrington on our way out. Thanks, Dez.” 

His smile turned genuine when Glory saw him and Charmer heading for the back door. He winked to rub it in, even though he knew she’d make him pay for it later.

The prospect of Glory beating him was a welcome one, because it’d mean he’d survive the battle ahead.

\--

A radstorm for the ages kicked up just as the Bunker Hill monument drew into sharp relief. That was the first sign that the next few hours would be hell.

Charmer’s Institute contact was a courser with the eeriest voice he’d heard yet. Its pistol was trained on his forehead until she’d hurriedly explained that he was with her. As they rounded the corner out of the alley and an ear splitting crack of radiation boomed through the sky, Deacon leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“Shoot to miss. Can’t let them know too soon.”

He’d done undercover missions where he’d had to kill one of their own. Another set of scars on his mind to join the others. Deacon wanted to keep her psyche unmarred - hoped that things wouldn’t decline so far.

When the telltale hum of a vertibird engine joined the crackling of the radstorm, he knew what was to come would be a story murmured about in the ‘Wealth for years to come. He hoped he was going to live long enough to overhear it.

The three forces clashed. By some trick of fate, the Brotherhood’s arrival on the scene proved to be a boon - both Maxson’s forces and the Institute turned their attention to each other, the danger presented by the few agents the Railroad had judged a lesser threat.

It was a testament to their years of planning, the systems he’d helped put in place. Their status as an underdog was the secret to their success.

Still, he saw agents fall, felled by laser fire both red and blue. The world was ultra saturated, the green of the rad storm colored with every streak of energy and flame. Grenades and missiles chewed through asphalt and scrap fencing. Charmer’s geiger counter ticked with every flash of light in the sky. Every inch of progress they made was paid for in blood. Never before had he been in a firefight of this scale - he remembered the campaigns and wars spoken of in pre-War novels, felt a strange kinship with those men of the past, overwhelmed and horrified. At least he fought for a just cause.

Deacon limped along with the strike team, ducked behind cover and pulled Charmer with him. The battle seemed endless. He watched as Gen 1s cornered an agent he knew was a synth, and watched as she put her gun to her head and pulled the trigger, choosing death over reclamation.

The stakes were clear.

Things were going relatively according to plan, at least. A horde of Gen 1s were teleported in, served as distraction enough for their team to make it to the basement entrance as quickly as possible. The sooner the courser was dealt with, the less lives it could take. He still felt dread at the idea of fighting the courser and its squad in the catacombs beneath the settlement, but speed was of the essence.

Again, the Brotherhood proved to be a good thing for the first time since its work in the Capital Wasteland. They’d gotten there first, pinned down by the Railroad’s superior position in the catwalks above. With the Institute entering the fray it became a free-for-all. They hunkered down behind a crumbling stone retaining wall and tried their best to take pot shots, but every moment they leaned out of cover risked death. The Brotherhood had a fully armored paladin with a gatling laser turning anyone in the firing line to ash.

The courser took note. Deacon could read it - even coursers had body language, they were as human as their brethren even if their hearts weren’t. It shifted, ducked out of cover to analyze rather than kill. Formulating a plan of attack.

Charmer didn’t miss the opportunity. She was watching, too. Just before it pushed away from their cover she pulled the pin from a grenade on its belt. The courser charged at the paladin with speed that bordered on super human, shoving its rifle into the spacing between helmet and chest chassis. A suicide mission even if Charmer hadn’t taken her chance.

Something in the power armor must have been defective, for when the courser exploded the armor’s fusion core ignited and started a chain reaction. Deacon had only the telltale glow to warn him - he grabbed Charmer by the back of her coat and pulled her to the ground behind their cover. He rolled on top of her just as the underground chamber was rocked by a massive fireball. The wave of heat that rolled over his back was intense.

Silence fell - at first he thought he’d been deafened, but Charmer’s ragged breathing beneath him spoke to the contrary. Cautiously he lifted his head to survey the damage.

What had once been the paladin was now a husk of twisted metal, ripped apart from the inside. Scrap metal and charred bits that he didn’t want to think too hard about littered the dirt floor close to the epicenter. Corpses of every faction were slumped against the wall, thrown aside by the blast like ragdolls. The creak of the catwalk above them was a sign that the Railroad’s forces, at least, had survived the blast.

Deacon looked down at Charmer. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the bloom of heat and adrenaline on his skin. Everything else seemed to blur when he saw her eyes, pupils blown wide and fixed on him. A primal energy hovered in the air between them, the euphoria of survival and a foe defeated mixing with something deeper. Together they had achieved the impossible yet again, their connection had ensured their survival, but it wasn’t enough. Deacon had to be closer, suddenly even the short space between them was too much. He realized why it was called blood _ lust _ .

Pushing off of her was vital. It was so easy to lose his head around her, proximity only made it worse, and it was harder and harder for him to take control and detach himself. It was impossible for him to feel only a little towards her at a time, he couldn’t moderate himself now that the dam had been broken. All bets were off.

Judging by the faint whimper she made when he sat up and rose to his feet, Charmer was equally distressed by the sudden space between him. Deacon focused on the gore in front of him to chase the thoughts that arose from his mind, latched onto the disgust and spun it inwards.

“Oh, shit.” A whispered voice echoed from the catwalks above, breaking the silence of the chamber. Deacon was suddenly very thankful that he’d managed to exercise some self control. “Is that-”

“Charmer.” Another voice joined in. Two agents poked their heads through the catwalk railing, peering down. 

Deacon held his hand out to help Charmer to her feet. The two of them winced, recent wounds making their presence known. “What, I get new shades and everyone forgets who I am?”

“Oh,  _ shit! _ ” The same agent exclaimed. “The boys aren’t gonna believe this!”

Charmer took one glance at the mess of the chamber and nearly gagged. She quickly turned her attention upward and gave the observing agents a small wave and a nervous smile.

The muted gunfire above had ceased. He’d hoped that meant that the defense of the town was successful.

“We’ll hold down the fort from here, ma’am.” The second agent called down. “I don’t think they’ll want to fuck with us when they see the mess, though…”

“You think they’ll make us clean it?”

“We’re heavies now, we don’t do cleaning.”

“Bless their hearts.” Deacon muttered under his breath. He walked over to the ladder that led to the surface. He wasn’t looking forward to the climb, could feel his leg start to sting already - but the aura of exhaustion Charmer radiated now that the adrenaline rush had faded had him set on getting her somewhere she could rest. 

The radstorm had faded into a drizzle of regular rain when the two of them surfaced, a welcome respite. Agents were tending to the injured, the flaming wreck of a vertibird hissed with every raindrop. Their success wouldn’t go unnoticed - their threat was on the rise.

His plans were shot to pieces when he saw Charmer’s face. Her eyes were steely, mouth pressed into a thin line. Determined. When she looked up to him, though, the steel in her eyes chipped.

“I need to ask you a favor.”

Deacon’s stomach flipped. He pushed aside the immediate worst case scenario that had leapt to his mind. “Your wish is my… strong recommendation.” His wit floundered.

“He wanted to meet me after. Outside.” Charmer didn’t have to go into much detail, the way her voice cracked a little whenever she spoke of Shaun was evidence enough of what she was talking about. 

“Outside. Up here?” 

“Yeah. I… don’t know how he’ll react. After what we did here. I don’t…” Charmer squeezed her eyes shut. Her face wrinkled, a full body wince. She exhaled before she spoke again. “Can you be there? In case anything happens? I…” Her voice cracked again, dropped to a whisper barely audible over the raindrops. “I know that if I have to defend myself, I won’t be able to.”

She couldn’t kill Shaun. Of course she couldn’t. Even after everything he had done, everything he stood for, the man was still her son - she’d let her life pass instead of his if it was left to her, even when all logic spoke otherwise. So Charmer was leaving it to him. Deacon didn’t know if he should have been flattered or horrified.

He settled for sickened. He knew what he was, knew he’d only become better if anything by her presence, but what had she become? How had life put her in the position to make such a decision?

“I’ve got your back.”

\--

CIT. Shaun shared his mother’s penchant for locale-centered sentiment.

Gen 1s paced the old building’s halls. Pale grey light filtered in through boarded up windows reaching up several floors, shafts catching motes of dust. The air was thick with history. 

As before, Deacon went ignored once it was clear he was with Charmer. His leg throbbed in pain as they climbed flight after flight of stairs, but he bit his tongue. She’d fallen silent since the building’s marble pillars first came into view, and he knew she was only barely managing to keep her own pain in check.

Charmer turned to him when they reached the top landing. It was host to a single metal door next to a faded placard that read ‘roof access’. 

“I’d tell you to wait here, but you probably know where to hide better than I do.”

“Quit selling yourself short, Charms.” He gave her one of his lopsided smiles, all devil-may-care. Tried to offer some strength for her to draw from.

Her own smile was weak, but it was there. “I had a good teacher.” Her fingers brushed the door handle - but she didn’t open it just yet. Charmer pursed her lips, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “Deacon?”

“Yeah?” He couldn’t rustle up much more than that. There was something in her eyes that made him nervous.

The determination on her face crumbled. “Thank you.” She opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.

Deacon lingered in the darkness, at a loss. He didn’t have much time to dwell on what had just happened, for his attention was immediately consumed by the figure that awaited Charmer.

An old man, posture hunched. In his hands was an umbrella - not only was it free from holes, but its handle looked like a fluorescent light, bringing the man’s surroundings - and face - into sharp relief.

Shaun. 

He looked like Nate, enough so that he could only imagine how much it pained Charmer to look at him. Deacon knew her face well enough to see it reflected in her son, though - it softened his features, made them sleek rather than rugged. His eyes were all hers. It was disquieting.

They began to speak. Deacon couldn’t make out the words from his position, and as much as he loved to eavesdrop he wasn’t going to risk discovery - and Charmer’s cover - for it. He could pick up on tone, however. 

Shaun was angry, but condescendingly so - like an Upper Stands citizen who’d had to stoop to hiring a mercenary. Charmer kept her tone calculatedly flat, apologetic where it needed to be, and managed to soothe the man’s temper.

Their conversation drifted into businesslike for a little while. Deacon saw the energy in Charmer shift quite suddenly after a few minutes. She stiffened, hair damp, jacket shining from the rain. Her fingers twitched. A bad sign.

Charmer’s voice raised enough for Deacon to hear. “An  _ experiment? _ Is that what I am to you? You let me out just to see what would  _ happen _ ?  _ Alone _ ?”

“No!” Shaun’s voice rose to match hers, but his indignation wasn’t caused by her accusation, but her tone. Deacon had seen his type around often enough. “I understand that you have been caused some… distress, but the Institute saved me. From a life out here.” He swept his arm over the ruins of Boston sprawling before them.

“They killed your  _ father _ .” Charmer’s words shot out like bullets, spit with every bit of venom she could muster. A wound that had only festered.

“ _ Kellogg _ killed my father.” Shaun corrected, a dangerous anger in his tone - so much like Charmer’s, an understated coldness that could be easily underestimated. Deacon took his rifle into his hands.

She still had the wherewithal to know it was time to stand down. Her shoulders slumped in surrender, and Shaun’s expression immediately softened. Placated by her obedience. The man hadn’t offered synths free will, why should he allow it from Charmer?

Their conversation dropped in volume, businesslike once again. Deacon was struck by how fucked the situation was - her son decades her senior, their relationship so cold, the only remnant in the world of her life before the bombs treating her with disdain. Her only family, reduced to this. 

At first he thought lightning had struck from the blinding light and  _ crack _ that rippled through the air. He saw stars, blinked to try and regain his eyesight. When they finally adjusted, Charmer and Shaun were gone.

He listened to the rain hit the metal roof for a few minutes more before departing.

Every time he got close to her, circumstance pulled her away. He didn’t want to think of what that meant for the future. The future wasn’t something to think of in general - no use in trying, when he wasn’t sure he’d be there to see it.

\--

Desdemona looked horrified when he returned to HQ alone, but his explanation of their success was more than enough to cheer her. 

He couldn’t mirror her relief. Instead he tried to leverage it, asked for  _ something  _ to do, anything to do, because if he had to sit around doing nothing when he had a fuller understanding of just what Charmer was dealing with he’d crack.

Maybe Dez was willing to cut him a favor, or maybe she knew she couldn’t stop him from doing what he wanted either way and decided to at least get something productive out of him. Whatever her motivations, she sent him on an errand to their remaining safehouses to ensure all was still well. 

It was an errand born of anxiety - it had only been a day since they’d heard from their last bastions, but after Ticon - and with Bunker Hill still smouldering - they couldn’t take any chances.

Besides, he was their best man for slinking about Boston unseen, bum leg or no.

Glory’s glare as he left was legendary. 


	35. Tenebrae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is darkness before the dawn.

Day three of remaining cooped up in HQ passed. People began to relax a little, boredom overriding the tension.

The Courier didn’t mind the waiting. That was something she was intimately familiar with. It was the lack of privacy that was starting to get to her. At her heart she was a wanderer. Residing in an underground crypt was the antithesis of what she was. 

She’d taken to trying to teach her fellow agents Caravan. It wasn’t going too well - Glory had given up in a huff and settled on checking over her minigun for the thousandth time. Someone had smuggled in a guitar (“And no liquor?” Glory had grumbled) and strummed a tune. After some cajoling, Drummer Boy joined in singing, and soon HQ was filled with music. A shared hum - no one sang loudly, they let Drummer Boy carry the tune.

“I ever tell you I took up a contract as a talent scout?” The Courier said offhandedly, dealing a few cards to her next promising student.

“You? Talent scout?” Glory snickered from her side. “How did that go?”

“I’ve got all sorts of skills you don’t know about. Earned some people a hell of a lot of caps.” She had a cigarette tucked between her fingers and took a drag as she eyed her hand of cards critically. “If he’s ever struck by the urge to head west, I’ve got work for him.”

“All sorts of skills, huh?” Her partner lofted a brow, her grin shameless. “Well. You should tell him that. Might be able to make him blush.”

A few agents glanced their way, but said nothing. Good. The Courier had already seen a few sneakily clasped hands, walked in on a couple of young men entangled in the old tunnels. It was the same as the NCR camps before a battle, everyone seeking out what comfort they could while they still had the chance. The romance - or whatever you could call it - between her and Glory wasn’t anything to kick up a fuss about. Not now.

“Saving those for the third date.” The Courier smirked. “Might not look it, but I’m a lady at heart.”

“Come on, get a room you two.” Tom called from his workstation. “You’re throwing me off.”

“You want to find us one?” Glory turned around to bark at him. “Fucking Deacon gets to go out running around while we’re stuck in here, and he’s not even  _ enjoying _ it.” She’d been quietly fuming since finding out what happened at Bunker Hill and watching Deacon slink off again to do who-knew what. The day that passed since then only fermented her ire.

The Courier snickered and played a card. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, you know. Look, a couple years from now and you’ll look back on this fondly. Enjoy it.” 

Whatever Glory said in reply was drowned out by a loud burst of energy. Light filled the room, blinding them all for a few heartbeats before a rush of wind slammed into them, sending cards and papers flying.

Charmer stood in the middle of HQ, materialized out of thin air. Some agents - Glory included - had their weapons in hand and fixed upon her, shocked and suspicious at her method of arrival. Desdemona sprinted in from PAM’s chamber.

“Charmer, are you  _ insane _ ?” Dez exclaimed, but any further scolding she had planned died on her lips when the Railroad’s best hope spoke.

“The Brotherhood’s moving on HQ. Institute’s intel says so, which means the  _ Institute _ knows. I don’t know how much time we have.” Charmer was breathless and pale, unable to conceal the pain radiating through her. 

A loud  _ boom _ signaled just how long they had. “Oh, shit.” Tom shouted. “That’s the booby trap for the back door!”

Desdemona’s voice was loud and clear, jolting the gathered agents out of their shock. “Defensive positions! We’ve got incoming from the back door, they’re cut off now that the tunnel’s collapsed. Once they’re dealt with push through to clear the catacombs.” Their only way out. 

The Courier followed Glory to the stacked sandbags close to the back entrance. They had a clear firing line - any foe would be bottlenecked through the hole in the wall. If they were facing the Brotherhood, a knight in power armor would have difficulty breaking through.

Charmer knelt down beside her, a string of grenades in hand.

“You really are insane.” The Courier mused, looking down at the smaller woman. Charmer merely shrugged in response.

“So’s the world.”

The sound of a grenade clattering on the ground rang out. 

“FLASHBANG!” The Courier shouted, shielding her eyes just before the world went white. She heard Glory’s minigun spin up and start to spit bullets out at the intruders. The telltale sound of bullets striking power armor confirmed that the Brotherhood had gotten to them first.

“I’m gonna fucking  _ kill  _ Danse!” Glory shouted over the gunfire, the barrel of her gun beginning to glow red. “Thinking these fuckers could ever - hnh!” Laser fire seared across her arm, and her grip on the minigun faltered a moment. 

“Present for you!” Charmer yelled, hurling a grenade over. Deacon and her were starting to sound strangely alike. The Courier wondered if she and Glory were the same as she took her shots, aiming for the rubber weak points in the armor’s joints.

Shrapnel from the grenade peppered the ground, the sound joined by the dying screams of less armored brotherhood members. Glory’s minigun ripped through armor by sheer firepower, and the Courier managed to pierce visors and necks alike.

Slowly, but surely, they brought down their foes at the back door with the help of the other agents providing suppressive fire. Another explosion sounded, farther away.

“They blew the front door!” Tom screamed over the din. Glory whipped her head back.

“Shit. Cover me!” She turned to the Courier and kissed her on the lips. She tasted of smoke and gunpowder and left a smear of black paint in her wake. Too fast to dwell on, a stolen token of luck. Her smile was cocky, voice husky. “Let’s go get ourselves a room, Courier.”

\--

It took him a day to finish his rounds - he’d had to lie low at Dayton for a few more hours than he’d like thanks to a patrolling vertibird. It took longer than he’d wanted, Charmer could have returned, but the distraction was a desperately needed one. All was well in their remaining safehouses. All were ready.

The sun set as he made his way down the river promenade back to HQ. The water’s surface scattered the colors of the sky, made them dance and mix together. Some things bombs couldn’t destroy.

A roaring engine, a shadow passing overhead. Deacon stared as a vertibird made a beeline for the Old North Church, at a speed that suggested specific purpose rather than a simple patrol.

His heart jumped into his throat. 

He took off running.

The vertibird was gone by the time he arrived at the church - his leg injury had made him slow, too slow. Shards of wood littered the ground, the front door torn from its hinges. 

Echoes of a dozen safehouses flitted through his mind, their images overlaid on the sight before him. Fire and death. He couldn’t escape it. The open door led only to blackness, and he didn’t want to see what lay beyond.

But he had to. That was his fate, his curse, his duty. A witness to the end.

The world was silent when he stepped inside the church - he skipped over the floorboards that he knew would creak. Scents of spent gunpowder and ozone lingered in the air - joined by blood.

Contrary to expectation, the first corpse he found was a Brotherhood initiate, blood stains blooming around bullet holes in his chest. Deacon kept to the shadows by the wall and surveyed the damage. The moonlight streaming down from the broken roof illuminated the corpses of two knights - the armor of both was scorched and dented, suggesting the use of an explosive device, but one had a combat knife lodged in his neck. A half dozen unarmored members of the Brotherhood were strewn amongst the rubble, riddled with bullet wounds much as the first corpse he found.

A smear of blood led out from the church auditorium and into the hall that led to the catacombs. Deacon followed it - it looked as if someone bleeding heavily was dragged back down. He smothered whatever hope lit in his chest at the knowledge that this sort of thing wasn’t the Brotherhood’s MO. 

The catacombs were filled with more corpses - still Brotherhood. Laser fire had scorched the walls, bullet holes cracked the old brick. The air was thick with dust. His throat seized when he saw the Railroad’s coded front entrance blown open. 

When he saw what lay inside, relief and horror washed over him.

The Courier’s red beret was the first thing he noticed, a sign that at least someone had made it. She sat at the end of the trail of blood, attention focused on someone slumped against the retaining wall, out of his view. 

He remembered when Charmer first arrived at their doorstep, stood where corpses now lay. He had no idea of what awaited him then, what it truly meant. Deacon was suddenly consumed by the thought that the source of the blood was  _ her _ .

But the Courier’s expression was one he knew well - the black streak on her lips spoke to something else. Something nearly as terrible. She didn’t even notice his presence, even when he moved as quickly as he could to her side.

Glory.

Their best heavy lay in a pool of her own blood, her dark skin ashen, eyes unfocused. She was gripping the Courier’s hand weakly, murmuring things he couldn’t hear. His arrival sparked recognition in her, however, and she lifted her eyes to his.

“Deacon.” she choked out. The Courier still didn’t shift her attention.

“Glory.” He took a few hesitant steps forward. Nausea and bile crawled up his throat. A massive wound had been carved into her gut - he could see the sickening yellow of human fat peeking out from behind the blood. This wasn’t happening. 

_ High Rise beamed with pride in front of Ticonderoga, his arm around her shoulders. She’d just cut her hair, an act of defiance, reclaiming herself as human. The job they’d pulled off was too insane to ignore, impossible odds defeated. Glory earned her codename. _

_ Tommy Whispers and her, faces grimy from the day's mission, two synths freed. _

_ Glory had shone brighter than any of them. _

This was another reminder of why he’d been so adamant to stay detached, how aloofness could save him. 

Now he was losing family all over again.

Deacon sank to his knees beside the Courier. Glory’s grip on her hand tightened as she spoke, gathering her last bit of strength.

“None of them got past us.” she rasped. “Damn, that stings. Listen… Charmer… she’s the best thing that’s happened to us. Make sure…” A cough, blood trickling from her lips. “... she makes it. Promise me you’ll free them. All of them.”

“We’ll get them out, Glory. I promise.” It took all of his energy to keep his composure, keep his voice soothing and firm.

A smile ghosted over her face. “If anyone…” Another cough. Her voice was fading. Her eyes lost their focus. “Isn’t there… supposed to be a light?”

Glory’s hand went limp in the Courier’s. Her last words were tinged with fear. Deacon raised his hand to her face to close her eyes.

The Courier shook. She was silent, her head bowed, but her body betrayed her inner turmoil. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, unseeing - filled with fire. 

A mirror of the past, when he stood on the hill and let himself be consumed by rage.

Like him, her anger would prove to be a deadly tool.

\--

HQ went quiet when the Courier walked in, Glory’s body cradled in her arms. Cries of pain broke the silence, agents who’d been wounded. A few bodies lay covered by tarps by the makeshift clinic - all the wrong shape to be Charmer, he noted with relief. He was soon disgusted at his own thoughts.

The Courier paused in front of the impromptu morgue. Desdemona entered the main chamber from PAM’s room, drawn by the sudden silence. Tinker Tom and Charmer were fast behind - uninjured, thank god.

All stared, speechless, as the Courier lowered Glory to one of the mattresses. She was covered in her blood, something out of an old renaissance painting, Glory’s black lipstick smudged across her mouth.

Charmer was the first to move. She unpinned their flag from the wall and brought it over. Draped it over Glory, letting the lantern imprinted cloth settle over her.

The Railroad’s brightest light had gone out.

A reckoning approached.

\--

They gathered in PAM’s chamber, terribly aware of how their numbers had shrunk. Desdemona brought down the hammer.

Operation Red Glare’s time had finally come. Deacon, Charmer, Tom and the Courier were to eliminate the Brotherhood’s threat once and for all. The only hitch in the plan was tracking down a vertibird. Thankfully, the Railroad had someone to ask.

Paladin Danse.

Glory had ensured her own vengeance.

The man was being held in Griswold, their impromptu prison. His knowledge was too valuable to allow out of the Commonwealth just yet. When Deacon had stopped in, the man seemed relatively content in his situation, had taken to repairing armor and ballistic weave for the field agents present. He still held his tongue when it came to Brotherhood secrets. Earning his cooperation would be difficult.

Judging by the dark energy the Courier seemed to radiate, she had plans of her own.

“I’m worried about her.” Desdemona confided, after the others had left the room to prepare, rendering her and Deacon alone. 

“You should be.” Deacon agreed. “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

The look she gave him was a meaningful one. “They were closer than I’d have liked.” Desdemona was audibly withholding tears, her voice had a strangled quality to it. “God. The last thing we need is for this to break us. Glory wouldn’t want it. Whatever happens - make sure Charmer gets through. I think you and her are all that’s holding morale together.”

For so long he’d run from responsibility, ensured that no one depended on him. He knew what he was, knew he’d always disappoint in the end. All he had going for him was his habit of surviving the worst.

Now he was a fixed point for others to turn to. A constant presence, even as his faces ever shifted. Charmer had made him into something more, given him an identity that others could look up to.

“I will.”

\--

The four of them walked to Griswold in silence. A fog had settled over Boston, the world turned a blurry white as moonlight filtered through it. They had no time to rest. The Courier took point, Tom walked behind her, Deacon and Charmer pulled up the rear.

She slipped her hand into his as they walked. He couldn’t pull away, didn’t care if Tom saw now. The contact was a tether keeping them intact, the warmth of her body keeping the cold away. The action spoke all that was needed. Words failed, could never express the truth this simple movement did.

Deacon directed them to the manhole that led to Griswold - a police station buried in rubble, entered only by the maintenance tunnels that led to its basement. When Charmer released his hand to slide down the ladder, the chill that ran through him was more than physical.

Griswold itself was evidence of the Railroad’s hope - even buried under rubble with only a few thin shafts of natural light able to penetrate its cramped chambers, the agents who resided in it made do. Wasteland plants that didn’t require much sunlight sat in pots with glowing fungus and mushrooms, a much needed burst of color in the grey surroundings. Rugs and blankets were thrown about. Much like Mercer, the place had been made a home.

There were two agents on duty, both visibly drowsy when their group approached their desks. They took one look at Deacon, made a joke of how recently he’d visited, and waved them through.

Danse was still in his cell, carefully stitching pieces of leather back together with thick sinew cord. He’d made some comfort in his surroundings, too - he’d been given a few magazines and books to pass the time. A few weights sat by his bed. When he saw the red of the Courier’s beret out of the corner of his eye he jolted to attention.

Deacon and the others watched as the Courier marched up to the cell door and wrapped her hands around the bars in a white knuckled grip. He was thankful they hadn’t been given any keys.

“... Courier.” Danse spoke first, his greeting polite if hesitant. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Glory’s dead.” she spat. 

The paladin deflated. His brown eyes went wide, his jaw dropped open a fraction. “I… I’m sorry.”

“Because of your fucking Brotherhood.” The Courier hissed. “We’ve only ever acted in defense, and you came to our home. She died defending others from them. Her crime was wanting her people to be  _ free _ . I ever tell you what the fuck the Brotherhood out west really did?”

Danse flinched and said nothing.

Tom cast Deacon a nervous glance. “Let her talk.” Deacon murmured in reply. “For now.” 

Charmer moved a little closer to him.

“They wanted to take a power plant for themselves. Their elder was a real fucking piece of work. Threw people at their enemy one after the other, just let the bodies fall. When it was clear he lost, he ran.” The Courier continued, leaning into the bars. Her voice was manic, tinged with madness, a dangerous whisper. “I found him, Danse. He tried to lure people into hell, slapped  _ slave collars _ on them to find some old world treasure or die trying. He put one on me. That’s what the Brotherhood is, Danse. That’s what they are at their core. They will burn this entire world down if they get to rule over the ashes. They’ll spill rivers of blood if it means they’ll have a few trinkets from the same world that ruined itself. Worshipping at the altar of destruction. It brought them to their knees. I let them live. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

It was Charmer’s turn to flinch.

Danse stared down at his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me.” he said thickly.

“They were going to do the same to you. Glory bothered to give a shit about you, and they killed her for her trouble. What I **want**-” She rattled the bars violently. “-is for you to help us make certain they never do fucking anything like this again.”

“We’ve lost enough people. On both sides.” Charmer interjected. Good cop, bad cop. Some voice of reason needed to balance out the Courier’s raw grief and fury. “We’re moving on the Institute, but we can’t with the Prydwen existing.”

The former paladin paled. He sunk his face into his hands, rubbed at his temples. “You’re asking me to help you kill people I care about. My comrades.”

“They don’t fucking care about you! We were  _ strangers _ and we gave more of a shit!” The Courier shouted, kicking at the metal. “How many warned you? How many tried to help you get out?”

“Haylen did.” Danse’s stern reply managed to silence the Courier for the moment. “She… I helped train her. She was the only one who said anything, but she-” He stopped himself. Swallowed, shook his head. “If you want to get to the Prydwen, your best bet will put you up against her. I can’t. I can’t have her blood on my hands.”

“Then help us.” Charmer left Deacon’s side and moved to the cell’s edge. “If there’s a way we can do this without bloodshed, please.”

“We can find our own way.” The Courier spoke lowly, nearly a growl. “And every person we lose will be paid for dearly.”

Danse stood sharply, throwing the armor he was working on to the floor. He remained stationary for a few moments, panting heavily, before finally looking over to the two women.

“Promise me you’ll get Haylen out and take what prisoners you can. “ He didn’t seem to know if he could trust Charmer or the Courier more. It was clear he knew that he was in no position to bargain, had no way to make sure they lived up to their promise - but he was trying nonetheless. There was something innocent about it that made Deacon’s chest hurt.

Charmer looked over to the Courier. It hinged on whether she could keep her vengeance in check. “Can we do that?”

The Courier took deep breaths, that cold anger settling over her once again. Her grip on the bars loosened, her arms fell back to her sides. “If they let us. Everything else is open season.”

Danse closed his eyes. “Forgive me.” he mumbled before opening them. “Alright. To get to the Prydwen, you need a vertibird. More importantly, you need someone who can pilot it.”

“Already handled.” Tom spoke up. “The uh, pilot part.”

The ex-paladin stared at Tinker Tom and his peculiar headwear long enough to worry Deacon. He hoped the man wasn’t having second thoughts. Thankfully, he continued.

“Outstanding.” Danse said flatly. “Good. That means you can take who you want up there. Now, getting the vertibird - they’ll have to call it in. Our base of operations outside of the airport is the Cambridge Police Station, where Haylen is. You’ll have to convince her to radio in a transport. Then you’ll have to eliminate the pilot and all hostiles to take it over.”

“Anyone got any ideas how we do that?” Charmer inquired, looking back at Deacon and Tom.

It was the Courier who spoke, tone still edged with danger. “I tell them I know Danse’s whereabouts and have reconsidered my stance on joining the Brotherhood. You think the invite will still stand?”

Danse looked suitably impressed. To tell the truth, Deacon was too. 

“That’ll work. Bait they can’t resist, and maybe… maybe it’ll make working with Haylen easier, too.” He ran his hand through his hair, military cut starting to grow out. “Make sure everyone’s suited up before you board the vertibird. We’ve got enough personnel that faces aren’t always ones you recognize, so if you have the uniform and don’t stop to talk you should be able to get where you need to go.” He spoke a little awkwardly, hesitantly, hating the subject matter even as he spoke. Self loathing was writ clear on his face.

“We’ll make it clean.” Charmer was all earnestness, gathering about the mantle she’d worn for so many settlers - the mantle that had brought her into the fold. “Thank you, Danse. You’re a good man.”

The Courier pushed away from the cell and stormed out. Tom let out a low whistle. 

“Am I?” Danse asked softly. He sank back down on his bed and stared at his feet morosely.

Cambridge awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof this was a rough one to write you guys. :( The trauma never ends.


	36. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.

She felt like an automaton. Her entire being was functioning on poor programming, going through the motions with little input from the rest of her. 

Not to say that her rage had burned itself out. No, that was the fuel that kept her moving, the drive to do something, anything. To lash out as if her combat inhibitor had been destroyed, to tear everything around her apart, to try and gain control of something in her life.

To try and make sense of it all.

The Courier felt numb as their group navigated Boston’s streets, her rage muffled after Danse bore the brunt of it. She didn’t have a target for it now, so it lay in wait, a sleeping predator.

Deacon knew it, judging by the frown lines that appeared when he looked at her. Charmer was all pity, Tom pure suspicion. She could feel their eyes on her back. At least she had the job of taking point to keep her distracted. If she tried particularly hard, she could pretend she was alone. She wished she was.

For now, it was one foot in front of the other, her eyes scanning the horizon for those who sought to darken them forever. A march through the fog.

The cycle repeated again. She had died again, but could not rest.

\--

The fog was thick as ever when they reached Cambridge - even so, the Police Station was difficult to miss. Spotlights cut through the fog, a beacon for incoming vertibirds. 

“The Brotherhood really has a sense of subtlety, don’t you think?” Deacon murmured from the back of their group. The Courier paid him no mind.

More emplacements had been set up since the Courier had last visited. Sieging it would require people they didn’t have. Her chest suddenly hurt, ripped at by the remembrance.

People that were gone.

Danse’s plan would have to do. The four of them hunkered in a decaying bus shelter just down the road, watching a patrol of knights depart. They collectively gathered their nerves, made peace with what they were about to do. Soon all eyes turned to her. The Courier realized they expected  _ her _ to lay out the plan of action.

“I’ll see if they let me in.” she began hollowly - the words didn’t feel like hers, she barely felt the air pass her lips. She thought, and her mouth answered without her. “If I do, I know the inside of the building. Going to do my best to take them out.” 

Deacon nodded. “I’ll get up on the roof, set up a good firing line. See if I can’t get Charmer up to get behind them inside.” The Courier saw his hand move toward his partner, a subconscious action that was far too telling. Maybe they all were starting to crack.

There was a soft  _ click _ as Charmer took Deliverer from its holster. “Won’t be any good against a knight, but I’ll pick off anyone else as long as they’re distracted.”

“I’ve got a little surprise for ‘em I’ve been cooking up since they started really messing with us.” Tom patted his satchel, bulging with a mysterious object within. “Explosion disables power armor for a few seconds, should help even the odds. Uh. I’ll be in the back, though.”

“If I fuck up, go in hot. No prisoners. You’ll have around twenty minutes before that patrol gets back and you’ve got real problems.” The Courier added flatly, unable to muster up much emotion at the prospect of her death. Two things were all her mind could comprehend - vengeance, and ensuring that Glory’s death had meant something.

For that, they had to succeed.

Charmer nodded, her expression a grave one. She wasn’t a killer, however often the task was required of her. It was fairly obvious that even after all they’d done, the prospect of wiping out the Brotherhood so brutally was anathema to the woman.

She didn’t feel Glory’s blood wash over her hands. She couldn’t understand.

Tactical wisdom and the importance to the cause aside, a crime had been committed. Justice found her way.

“Break a leg out there.” Charmer said with her best attempt at a smile. It was weaker than the drinks at an NCR cantina. It caused the corners of Deacon’s mouth to twitch, a ripple effect.

The Courier swept out of the ruined shelter without another word. In the few moments before she reached the gates she was blissfully alone, an unseen figure in the fog.

\--

In the dead of night the Brotherhood’s forward encampment was quiet. Threats were minimal now that she’d done them a favor by clearing out the ghoul infestation - the only people who dared step to them now were the Institute, and they could do little without access to the Prydwen. 

Arrogance would be their downfall. 

Two guards were posted at the gate to the station’s courtyard, young men with buzz cuts in gleaming combat armor. Not high rank enough for their power armor, yet. They’d recognized her by the beret on sight. 1st Recon had a reputation in the Commonwealth, thanks to her.

“I’m here to speak to Haylen.” 

“For what?” 

“I’ve changed my mind about the Elder’s offer. I was hoping to discuss it with her.” The rage was starting to gather again, storm clouds thundering in her mind. The Courier leashed it, tried to keep it under control for just a little while longer. 

The two men exchanged looks. Skeptical. They weren’t buying it - why would they? Why would she show up so late into the night for something where time wasn’t of the essence?

“I know where Danse is.” She added in a clipped tone. She knew it was her trump card, but she was also very aware that it lined her up for many hours of painful interrogation if she was captured. 

It was harder to care about than it used to be. 

Danse’s fate was too tantalizing to resist, however suspicious the circumstances appeared. The guards looked fearful as they pulled open the gate. If only they knew.

The Courier sauntered into the police station proper as if she knew the place, escorted by the guards. She caught sight of one of the men on the rooftop suddenly disappearing just as she walked in through the front door. Deacon and Charmer must have taken their places. It went unnoticed by her escort.

It gave her a much needed burst of confidence, for the sight that lay within the station wasn’t a welcome one. It was crawling with personnel - she could see three of the beds in the room serving as a barracks occupied. The main room was staffed by a knight, currently arguing with a couple of scribes. 

Her destination was down the hall, however. The small room by the stairs had been turned into a communications centre. Scribe Haylen sat hunched over a desk illuminated by a single lamp, translating messages into code. She looked up tiredly at the sound of encroaching footsteps. Her eyes were red.

Had she been crying?

Sympathy wasn’t something the Courier could feel for her, but the knowledge was a tool she could work to her advantage. She wasn’t a smooth talker - but she was an opportunist.

“Hey.” It was a simple greeting, as genuine as she could offer. 

Haylen blinked slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you here again. Ma’am.” The formality was an afterthought, every word seeped in exhaustion. The Brotherhood had been working as hard as the Railroad, it seemed. “How can I help?”

Her manners were somewhat disarming. It made the prospect of doing what had to be done an unsavory one. Was that on purpose?

“I need to speak with Elder Maxson.” Using the honorific felt like her tongue had turned to ash. Burned bitterness. Haylen didn’t pick up on it. “I know where Paladin Danse is.”

Haylen’s entire attitude shifted. A light returned to her eyes. The scribe tried to keep it measured, but it shone no matter how she tried to hide it under a professional demeanor. Synth or no, Danse’s fate was one she cared about. “I… I’ll make the call right away.” The Courier must have worn her surprise on her face, for Haylen added; “No outsider’s supposed to know about that. However you know, Maxson will want to hear about it.” 

A veiled threat. Haylen’s own way of informing her of the consequences. 

“Thank you.” The Courier answered as calmly as she could. She stood at mock parade rest as Haylen swivelled her chair to the ham radio and leaned forward to open the line.

“Haylen to Prydwen. Send Claymore down. Personnel transport. Escort to the Elder.” 

An audience. Maybe she’d be able to spit in his face before the world around them went up in flames.

“Acknowledged. Claymore en route.” The radio crackled in response. Her signal.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins, and feeling erupted in her once more. She understood Boone’s bloodlust, now - the primal rush brought her humanity back to the forefront, for only a little while.

She slipped her hands into her pockets, pulled the pin of the flashbang within her left. Her .44 was in the other, fingers wrapping around its grip. In one fluid motion, she tossed the grenade to the floor and turned her .44 on one of her escorts, squinting her eyes shut.

Chaos erupted immediately - shouts sounded from the other room. Haylen threw herself to the floor, blinded. The Courier put a bullet neatly through each of her escort’s heads. Then she threw herself into cover next to Haylen - the scribe pawed at her pistol and fumbled getting it out of the holster. Helpless.

It’d be too easy to put a bullet through Haylen as she did with the rest. It wouldn’t put her at ease, but it’d be a brief moment of satisfaction. Taking away a shining star just as they had.

Instead she jabbed the scribe full of enough med-x to render her limp and let fortune decide her fate.

Laser fire began to stream in. The flashbang’s effects had faded, and now she had at least half a dozen Brotherhood members and a knight out for her blood. The doorframe was too narrow for the power armor at least, but the suppressive fire being laid down meant that it was a matter of seconds before the others could overwhelm her.

Confused shouts joined the fray. There was a pause in the fire. Bad move - the Courier whipped around the doorframe and emptied a couple shots into an armored man. Behind the group Charmer had made her debut - two fresh corpses lay by her feet. Those who had been sleeping now had their hands bound - one was handcuffed to the bedframe and as panicked as one could be trapped as they were in the middle of a firefight.

The woman was effective, she’d give her that.

With the Brotherhood’s attention split between the two women, it was easy to pick off the Brotherhood personnel exposed in the main room. Charmer threw a grenade, taking out initiates standing too close. The Courier put down a scribe.

The knight was another issue entirely. Power armor required powerful weapons - while the Courier’s .44 was nothing to sneeze at, they were in need of more stopping power. 

Tom provided the answer they needed. She didn’t see him arrive, but she heard his voice.

“ _ NOW!” _

A wave of energy passed over the room. It made the Courier’s hair stand on end and float, her skin felt as if a thousand pinpricks were running over it. The knight suddenly stopped moving, armor rocking to and fro as its wearer struggled frozen within it.

The Brotherhood liked to scuttle their power armor, that much she remembered. They didn’t have time to try and get a lucky shot.

Feral anger washed over her. She reached for her knife, the edges of her vision reddened. Deja vu. She’d done the same when she saw the paladin’s blade rip through Glory. 

It played out the same. Like a wildcat she sprinted out of her cover and leapt at the knight. She sank her blade into the rubber surrounding their throat as if it were her fangs, watched their face through their visor. Blood erupted when she removed her blade, pouring down the battered steel and onto the floor. 

The power armor had become a coffin.

“Got them all?” Charmer panted. She jogged over to her prisoners, saved by virtue of sleeping, and began restraining them properly.

“Think so.”

“Good. I can’t hear any gunfire outside and Tom made it in, so I think Deacon took care of things there.” 

“That’s right.” Tom shamelessly strode up to the fallen knight and extracted the fusion core from their armor. He whistled as he tucked it into his satchel. “Don’t tell D-Man I did that.”

Haylen slurred something from behind her. Business wasn’t quite finished. 

“Get outside - fight’s not over yet. Still have to take over that vertibird.” The Courier wasn’t used to commanding, but Charmer and Tom seemed thankful enough for it. They were horribly out of their element, they weren’t soldiers. Ways to avoid death that didn’t include running wasn’t the kind of knowledge they specialized in.

“Will you be okay in here?” Charmer couldn’t hide the suspicion in her tone. The Courier didn’t have the capacity to take offense.

“I’ll be out right after. Just have to blow the radio equipment.” She jerked her thumb to the room behind her. Charmer pressed her lips together, but said no more. Tom followed her out.

As if aware that the two of them were now alone, Haylen tried harder to form words. “What are you… going to do?” she slurred. 

The Courier pulled a strip of fabric from her pack and grabbed the scribe’s arms, binding them roughly behind her back. “We’re blowing up your fucking airship.” When it was done, she propped Haylen against the wall so she could sit up straight and knelt in front of her. The Courier wanted the scribe to realize the weight of her sins. “I was told it’s  _ tactically wise _ . That what they told you people before they send you to kill us in our own beds?”

Haylen’s reaction gave her exactly what she was looking for. The young woman panicked and kicked at her. She was rewarded for her trouble by falling to her side on the floor. “N-no, no-” Tears had sprung to her eyes.

“I won’t be the one to kill you.” The Courier said brusquely. “Shut up and you’ll be a survivor.”

“I don’t-  _ no _ !” There was urgency in the scribe’s tone, a panic that wasn’t the fear of death. Haylen spoke her words slowly, enunciated them as best she could, tried to overcome the med-x haze. “Listen, there are  _ children _ heading aboard. The squires return from their training exercise this morning. They’re due to fly back up in less than an hour. You  _ can’t _ .”

So that was the cost. Revenge always had one. Benny’s had bought her a decade of guilt and a love she couldn’t keep. The Brotherhood would make her a child killer. Make all of them child killers. Still, she tried in vain to stay her conscience. “You fuckers were the ones who brought children to a war zone. Their blood’s on your hands.”

“Please.” Haylen was begging now, her cheek flattened against the station floor. “Let me warn them. I’ll… I’ll say the fog’s too thick. Let me save them.”

Who had  _ they _ saved? When had  _ they _ stayed their hand? The atrocity belonged to them, not to her. 

“Seems pretty convenient.” The Courier drawled cooly, wiping the blood from her knife. “You could warn command in code and I wouldn’t be the wiser. I don’t think so.”

“ _ Please.” _ Haylen wept. She was trying to hold the tears back and failing, trying to keep up the veil of professionalism. A difficult emotion to fake. “You can shoot me if you think I’m up to something, just… let me…”

_ He drew her across the Divide to  _ ** _know_ ** _ what she had done. The ruin of her actions stared her in the face, unavoidable. _

_ Who are you, who do not know your history? _

_ Who are you, to avoid it? _

The blood would be on her hands. She had a chance to stop it. Caesar’s death could not soothe Boone’s mind. Children’s deaths certainly wouldn’t soothe hers.

Her hand seized Haylen by the collar. The Courier tugged her up and into the desk chair. One hand pressed her pistol to the back of Haylen’s head. The other moved to the dials.

“Tell me what frequency.”

Haylen audibly exhaled in relief. “I’ll remember this. Turn it to the left… there. Okay. Queue up the mic.” She was managing admirably to make herself clear - the adrenaline must have been cutting through the med-x. Haylen’s voice quivered. The Courier followed her instructions, hoping that she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.

“I’m smarter than I look.” The Courier warned before pressing down on the microphone.

“Weather advisory. Thick fog reducing visibility, belay flights until sunrise. Shelter in place if needed.” Haylen tried to make up for her nerves by speaking firmly. The few seconds of silence that passed felt like an eternity.

“Acknowledged. We’ll send the squires up in the morning.” A warm voice answered. The Courier lifted her thumb from the microphone and fired.

Haylen flinched. Before her the radio collapsed into scrap metal, the casualty of a .44. She dropped her head and stared at her lap, the tears now free flowing. The scribe didn’t beg for the Prydwen, didn’t try to make excuses. It was war. The Courier could admire that, at least. She swivelled the chair so that Haylen would face her. She could hear the drone of a vertibird in the distance.

“Before you get any ideas - you’ll regret them.” she warned. “I didn’t lie. I know where Danse is. The Railroad found him.  _ I _ found him.”

Haylen paled. “Oh.” she spoke softly, clearly dreading the answer that was to come.

“He wanted to die. Maxson said he was one of the best, and he wanted to  _ die _ . Said you people wanted him dead. Everything he’d done didn’t matter a fucking bit. I talked him down with a… friend of mine.” Her voice cracked in spite of herself. “We were strangers, and we gave more of a shit about him than your fucking Brotherhood. Remember that.”

Haylen’s eyes were filled with hate - but the angle of her brow suggested a heavy amount of doubt as well. Good. “Is he alive?”

The vertibird engine grew louder. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll see each other again. Better than you deserve.” She spat and jabbed Haylen with another dose of med-x. “You get to sleep through this.”

She left Haylen there, verging on the edge of unconsciousness, and climbed the stairs.

\--

Taking over the vertibird was simple - it had a pilot and a single escort, outnumbered and outgunned. Deacon and the Courier dragged the bodies out of the way together while Charmer and Tom started figuring out the vertibird.

“So, this is totally a case of do as I say and not as I do.” Deacon began, starting to strip off one of the dead men’s uniforms. “They see us in our civvies and we’ll be swiss cheese before we can say ‘Ad Victoriam’. See if you can find Charmer’s size, Courier. I uh. Don’t want to…” He gestured helplessly at the two women dead on the ground. “You won’t need one since you’re our  _ special guest _ . Hey, Tom!” He flung the first suit over. “Got a helmet for you too. Just for a little bit, promise.”

“If the Institute hacks into my brain waves while we’re mid-air we are  _ toast _ , Deacon!” Tom shouted back from the cockpit, though he caught the suit nevertheless. 

“Figured the helmet was a long shot.” Deacon shrugged. He glanced up at the Courier, noting her silence. “Hey. Don’t worry. We’re going to do some good tonight.”

“Charmer see it that way?” The Courier mused, tugging a uniform from a dead women she pegged as roughly Charmer’s size. It’d have to do.

Deacon’s face twisted, though he covered it with a quick smile. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Charms is pre-War. She doesn’t like any of this stuff. Speaking of which, pass me that.” He gestured at the suit the Courier had retrieved, artfully changing the subject.

She didn’t give enough of a shit to chase it, simply happy that he’d taken the hint that she wasn’t in the mood for discussing her own feelings. The suit was tossed over to him, then to Charmer.

Soon the three of them were suited up. Deacon was in full regalia, combat armor strapped to his body and a flight helmet masking his head and eyes. One for theatrics. He sat himself in the jump seat furthest away from the vertibird’s edge. Charmer sat next to him. Tom was in the pilot’s seat.

The Courier pulled herself up and into the machine, glancing at her pip-boy’s clock as she did so.

5:00 AM. 

\--

Tom’s flying was impressive for a beginner, but nausea inducing nevertheless. Deacon looked as if he was about to be sick, while Charmer was daring glances at the city below them through her fingers. The two men shouted at each other, but the Courier didn’t hear.

She stood by the edge, as she’d seen Brotherhood soldiers do - wrapped her arm around a handle on the vertibird’s interior and let herself hang a little ways out. The wind whipped at her hair and coat, the city sprawled beneath her, blurred visions in the fog. She closed her eyes and imagined that this was what birds must have felt like.

They approached the Prydwen after several minutes of flight. Any momentary peace they’d managed to find mid air was quickly banished. Their mission had begun. A great claw like device extended out from the airship, taking their transport into its grip.

“Okay. Remember - if you start firing in the balloon, we’re not going to need the explosives.” Tom shouted his last bit of advice over the engine. “If any of those tanks is weak, it’ll light us all up the second a shot hits it.”

The vertibird lurched like their stomachs had. It was lifted up to the main deck, where Arthur Maxson himself and another man in uniform awaited. Unarmed - at least, not visibly armed. A good sign.

Tom kept his head down. Deacon assumed the role of tired soldier with practised ease, and Charmer adopted the guise of an eager recruit.

The Elder smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The others were paid no mind, and the relief bolstered her nerves. He extended a hand to her. “Courier.”

When she took it her stomach rolled, disgust boiling within her. Flashbacks of the Tops entered her mind, Benny’s attempts at smooth talk, his body beneath hers as she-

“I thought it might be you. I don’t receive too many private visits.” He guided her down onto the main deck before letting go of her. Her hand burned. Maxson gestured for her to walk with him. “This is Lancer Captain Kells, my second in command. He was handling other matters during you… last visit.” 

The awkwardness in which he phrased the matter gave her a sick sort of glee. His men had nearly broken her jaw, and it was worth every truth of the Western Brotherhood she threw at them. The Courier offered him a smile of her own - predatory. “Nice to meet you.”

Lancer Captain Kells was a quiet man, simply tapping his hat in respect. 

“We’ll discuss the matter of your visit once we reach the command deck. I have my suspicions.” Maxson glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She’d never seen him quite so close before, walking beside her like this - his eyes were devoid of crows feet, the face beneath his beard soft. He was  _ young _ .

She didn’t know what time would turn him into, if he’d done everything he had at such an age. He couldn’t be offered the chance.

It was eerie, exchanging pleasantries with the two men as they strolled down the deck. Dead men. She was speaking with ghosts, and her mind rebelled against assigning them any humanity, any history. The Courier tried to hold to Glory’s last moments in her mind, a stark reminder of what these men were capable of.

They ascended to the command deck. She’d only spent a handful of minutes there - long enough for her to fill Maxson in on what she’d witnessed out west before she was dragged out. Now, in the foggy night, the deck was silent save for the airship’s ambient hum, lit only by dim red and blue emergency lights. The Brotherhood flags lay limp at poles flanking the door.

Maxson put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her forward. He and Kells entered the windowed room behind her. He closed the door.

Panic set in on reflex. A memory, faded behind the bullet to the brain. It fed dread into her veins, a terrible foreboding - though she knew not the cause. She stood still. The two men took their places in front of her, peering downward. Grim and foreboding.

They were alone. 

Worse, she couldn’t keep tabs on Deacon or Charmer. If she did anything too quickly, the operation would be blown. Too slowly, and  _ she’d _ be blown up with the rest of the miserable bastards.

“Forgive me.” Maxson began. “After our last talk, I believe it’s best that eavesdropping is kept to a minimum.”

“Did I damage morale?” 

The Elder scowled. Kells looked suitably offended. The feral voice in the back of her mind was baying, taunting -  _ hit me, hit me, hit me. _

“You caused some… confusion. It’s been taken care of. So, Courier - why are you here?” The suspicion was clear in his tone, and that fired her hatred even more. He didn’t trust her, but he had put her in a room with him and his second command, alone, unseen. He thought she was weak. 

She couldn’t lie and say she’d changed her mind. Not believably. She was moments away from tearing out his throat with her teeth. “Paladin Danse. I found him. I believe you were looking for him.” 

Maxson visibly stiffened, but otherwise gave no other sign he was thrown. “That matter is confidential.”

“I’ve been brought into confidence.” she replied cooly. “He was at a listening post by the shoreline. Hiding. Said he was a synth, said he didn’t know. Said that you were hunting him.”

“You believed him?” The elder raised a brow, though his tone betrayed no surprise. “He -  _ it _ \- was an infiltrator. Planted to destroy us from the inside.”

“Looked to be doing a shit job of it.” She couldn’t help her tongue. There was a significant chance that she wasn’t going to leave this room alive, and she planned on taking advantage of it. Her eyes darted out the window, to the city edging the shoreline.

A beautiful view, at least.

Maxson’s fury ignited - much the same as hers, cold and dangerous. There was something in his gaze that unsettled her, however - a lack of empathy. She was  _ other _ . His care didn’t extend to her. “There are secrets we keep that now might be in the Institute’s hands. Secrets to destroy the Commonwealth. Synths aren’t human, no matter what they look like. They aren’t people. They’re tools. They’re the final conclusion of pre-War madness.”

“Sins of the father.” The Courier murmured. He was right, in some ways - the existence of synths was thanks to scientists playing god, to madmen who thought they could program the living. But the conclusion was wrong, born out of a corrupt sense of superiority and xenophobia. Synths were not their masters. Glory was proof of that. “Well.” she breathed, voice low. Her head began to throb, a relic of the bullet to her brain. 

Maxson cleared his throat and composed himself, the polite commander once more. Kells, she soon realized, was there just to intimidate her, for the man said nothing. “Well.” The young elder repeated. “You found it. You believed it. Did you let it escape?”

“I convinced him not to kill himself.” A half-truth. The Railroad seemed fond of them - she supposed it was about time she used one. “After that - I don’t know. He didn’t come with me.”

The man closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Quelling his temper, she guessed. “I’m sure it was programmed to self-destruct upon discovery. The body’s still there, I’m sure. Listening post by the sea, you said?”

Telling truths that didn’t implicate her could do little harm, here. They were dead men walking. “Listening Post Bravo. There’s a sign. Hard to miss, if you’re walking down the beach. Northeast of here.”

Maxson glanced back at his second-in-command, unspoken words passing between them. It gave her goosebumps. The energy in the room shifted.

“Thank you, Courier. I’d like to offer you our hospitality, a position in our organization. However, you’ve made it quite clear you refuse to accept the honor.” 

Something about his tone made her skin crawl. She tilted her head. “Have I?”

“Enough is enough.” Kells finally interceded, unable to stand the Courier’s insolence a moment longer.

“As you might say out west - we can’t afford a wild card. I’m sorry.” Maxson continued.

The shift of their arms and her own unease was all the warning she had. In a heartbeat, guns were out. The shots rang through the small chamber. Her ears rang.

She still stood. Kells was dead on the floor. Maxson’s jaw had been shot and shattered, his free hand pressed over it in a vain attempt to stem the blood.

Pain was blossoming in her gut, but she didn’t have time to focus on it. She raised her .44 and shot Maxson’s legs out from under him.

He collapsed to the floor, cursing and spitting blood. She could hear many footsteps above. Suddenly red light flooded the room, alarm klaxons blaring. 

Time was short.

The Courier took a chance. She walked up to Maxson. The pain in her gut radiated with increased intensity.

“You’ll… die for that…” The elder spat, words malformed by his ruined mouth. 

She felt the blood, hot and sticky, drip down her body. It soaked her shirt. “Maybe.” she breathed. “That was for Glory, you son of a bitch. I’ve seen your kind before, and there’s one thing motherfuckers like you will never understand. You’ll never save humanity if you place yourself above it. You’ll rule it, maybe - but we’ll always outnumber you. Danse is with the Railroad. Remember that, for the minutes you can.”

The door behind her opened, and the Courier whipped around with her pistol raised only to see Charmer’s panicked face.

“Courier - oh, god.” Charmer retched at the sight of Maxson, gurgling through his own blood. “We’ve got to-”

“I know.” 

She left the Brotherhood’s shining god to bleed out on the floor. He could say his last words to the devil.

Together, the two women sprinted down the Prydwen deck as fast as their legs could carry them. Agony seared through her body, but she couldn’t let up, couldn’t even try to duck and dodge the incoming fire. Speed was of the essence.

They met Deacon halfway down it - looking similarly winded. He was running toward them, in the opposite direction.

“I… told you… I’d be fine…” Charmer spoke with every footfall, words jagged. Deacon moved behind her, as if his body could shield her from the hail of laser fire. He’d tried it once before.

“The next time you sprint off on an airship rigged to blow I’m  _ leaving _ .” Despite his choice of words his tone was one of utter relief. “Uh. Sorry, Courier.”

“I did what I wanted to do.” Was all she could offer in response. She’d let the Brotherhood know that they had earned their own destruction, that their arrogance and cruelty had signed their death warrant. It wasn’t by her hands, not really - Charmer and Deacon were to thank for it - but she’d offered her aid. Maybe her lack of interference would keep it untainted.

The Courier didn’t know if she could handle a repeat of the Dam.

Tom was shouting obscenities when they reached the vertibird. “You leave me and give me a fucking  _ cat _ ? You  _ know _ I’m allergic, Dee!”

Sure enough, their pilot tossed a cat Deacon’s way once he followed Charmer and the Courier inside the vertibird. The poor thing was terrified and dug its claws into him for purchase. He visibly winced, but kept the animal clutched to him protectively nevertheless. “Look, Tom, you can yell at me later-”

“Oh, I  _ will _ .” The vertibird tipped as Tom flipped and adjusted controls that were meaningless to the Courier. 

The world blurred. She managed to stumble into one of the jump seats and strapped herself in before the vertibird was free. Her surroundings turned into a mess of color as they flew through the air - she didn’t know if it was Tom’s flying or the blood steadily flowing from her gut that was making her nauseous.

Cool air brushed her face. She leaned her head back. Far away, she could hear panicked voices.

\--

Of course they couldn’t get away clean. 

It wasn’t the cat’s fault. If anyone expected him to leave it on the Prydwen after it had curled around his leg, he’d question their humanity. The cat’s owner tripping the alarm when he realized that Deacon was a stranger was a calculated risk. They’d planted the explosives, were on their way out. Charmer had done a magnificent job talking their way through.

No one was shot thanks to his actions. The Courier’s wounds were her own.

They were wounds nevertheless.

“Tom?” He shouted over the motor. “We’re losing the Courier!”

“Shit. Okay! We’re just about at a safe distance. I’ll set down, we get a stimpak in her, you and Charmer get out so I can run this baby faster and I’ll get us to HQ. Agreed?” 

Deacon stared at the Prydwen - and the moving arms announcing that more vertibirds would soon be in pursuit. Suddenly the vertibird lost altitude. Charmer yelped.

“All according to plan!” Tom shouted. The vertibird dropped far too fast for comfort - Deacon was sure the cat had torn his shirt to ribbons. 

A dull  _ thud _ sounded when they landed on the beach, fast enough that by some definitions it could be called a crash. The Courier’s head lolled to the side.

Charmer was out of her jump seat in a flash, using up her medical supplies as quickly as she could to help out their comrade. Deacon unbuckled himself one-handed and hopped out of the vertibird, cat still cradled in his arms. Its ears perked up just a little from their previous position flat against its head.

He watched as she leaned into the pilot’s seat to tell Tom something. When she hopped out she had the detonator in hand.

“Figured he deserves to watch the fireworks.” Charmer explained. “You ready?”

The Prydwen’s shadow loomed, a dark phantom in the slowly lightening sky. It wouldn’t see another dawn.

“Yeah. Light ‘em up.”

“For Glory.” 

The shadow burst into a ball of blinding white that lit up the world around them. It fast faded into a fireball, following the skeletal blimp structure as it fell to the ground. The shockwave hit them moments after, strong enough to push them back. It blew away the fog that blanketed the area.

In one last burst of flame, the Prydwen hit the ground and swallowed the airport in light. The embers were a glorious contrast against the navy blue sky.

They all stood and watched until they were certain the flames weren’t going to go out any time soon. Tom restarted the vertibird and took off.

Deacon looked over at Charmer. She was crying. He didn’t know the reason - she had more than enough. 

He did what he did best. Distracted.

“You know, I think this guy hates me.” Deacon declared, pulling the cat away from his chest and holding it out to Charmer. It shocked her out of her tears. “I can’t blame him. So instead of traumatizing him by carrying him all the way to HQ, I figured you can work your Charmer magic on him.”

She stared at him, incredulous.

“If you don’t grab him I’ll drop him.”

Charmer grabbed the cat with little argument, and the two began the long walk back to HQ. “What are we going to do with him?”

Deacon glanced at the horizon, the rising sun just beginning to cross it. “You know, I figured we’d see if Danse wanted him. Man could use some company. A new start, you know?”

She scratched the cat behind the ears and beamed at him. Her smile was brighter than anything he’d ever seen. “Yeah. A new start sounds nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to done now and I am so sad. As always so much love to you guys, I'm so happy to be making stuff you enjoy!
> 
> Also still forever mad you can't save the kitty. Someone had to.


	37. Psalm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prayer, before the end.

The Railroad had been busy in their absence. Evidence of a firefight with the Brotherhood had been wiped clean, the place returned to the unassuming ruin it had once been.

Deacon still paused at the site of Glory’s last moments. Charmer stood with him as he had for her every place in the city she’d stopped to mourn something unknown. Circumstances were starting to make them similar.

Or had they been that way all along?

The moment passed, and together they walked into HQ.

Everyone was in higher spirits - they were met by a few cheers from the more extroverted agents. Drummer Boy ran up to them, as he always did, breathless with excitement and bearing a smile.

“Saw the show from the steeple.” he explained, practically bouncing on his heels. “Wait - is that a cat?”

Charmer had tucked the animal into her coat as they walked through the city. Between the fog and autumn settling over Boston in full, she’d exclaimed it was too cold for the little creature. The cat didn’t seem to mind, its head poking out from her collar.

“Rescued it from the Prydwen.” Deacon explained. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly - it did sound a little ridiculous, when he said it out loud. “I figured they might like company over at Griswold.”

Drummer Boy’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Can I hold it? We… we always had cats, when I was a kid.” he stammered. Sometimes Deacon forgot how young the man was. The past few weeks had taken their toll on them all.

“Sure.” Charmer unbuttoned her coat, releasing the little feline. It squawked in protest at being removed from its warm surroundings, but began purring almost immediately once settled into Drummer Boy’s arms. 

_ Cat people. _

He rubbed the cat under the chin, body posture visibly relaxing. A much needed reprieve. It took a few moments for him to remember himself. “Oh. Right. You’re probably on your way to see her anyways, but Dez wants to talk with you ASAP. I… think we’re ready for the big one.”

“Figures.” Deacon replied lightly. That explained the heightened excitement. Days of boredom followed by pain had their energy redirected to their final goal - one that was, at last, within reach. The destruction of the Prydwen was a much needed boost in morale, though he knew that once the Brotherhood recuperated retaliation would be brutal. They had to prepare. He hoped Desdemona had a plan in place. 

He didn’t want to think about that part of the future too hard. It’d be fitting for how things were going for them to defeat the Institute only to fall to the remnants of the Brotherhood soon after.

“Make sure the little guy gets to Griswold.” He called over his shoulder as he and Charmer departed. “We owe ‘em.”

He couldn’t help but look around as they walked through HQ as they had so many times before. Familiarity made it easier to notice the changes the assault had left on their home. The bodies in the impromptu morgue had been moved elsewhere, their pain swept under the rug. For the moment. The corner by the back door that had been his and Charmer’s little sanctuary before Mercer was still riddled with scorch marks, mattresses buried under a thin layer of dust and rubble. At least the blood had been mopped up.

The Courier was awake, her tanned skin ashen, slouched in a chair while Carrington ran tests. She didn’t share the restored hopes of the other agents. It’d take more than an airship exploding to soothe her. A testament to why fraternization was so frowned upon.

Charmer dipped her head in acknowledgement as they passed her. It went unreturned. She took it personally, he could tell - her shoulders drooped in the way they did when she was disappointed, her eyes moved to the floor. Deacon rested his hand on her shoulder, aware of the irony even as he did so. Gently he rubbed his thumb along its seam, felt her warmth radiating through the coat. 

Their work was so close to done. He was growing sloppy - with the finish line in sight, suddenly everything he’d done to get himself there felt like a burden. If they survived what was to come, he wasn’t sure what he’d do with himself.   
  
But  _ god _ , he wanted to see it.

Desdemona was nearly finished with her pack of cigarettes when the two of them walked into PAM’s chamber. She looked dead on her feet, her movements were slower than usual. It took her a few moments to realize he and Charmer had arrived. When was the last time she had slept?

Still, she smiled at the sight of them. “I debriefed Tom. I don’t quite know how to describe how glad I am, so - good work. That should buy us a week or two to pull out of here.” 

“We’ve had headquarters with a shorter shelf life.” Deacon shrugged off the praise. His attention was focused on Charmer, as the muscle in her jaw had begun to twitch again. A bad sign. 

“Tom informed me the Courier’s got a knack for interrogation, though I believe Danse was fairly cooperative given the circumstances. I plan on telling Griswold to release him once we’ve brought down the Institute.” A pause. “It was… Glory’s plan. I feel like it’s the correct one.” Desdemona glanced between the two of them. “Unless you have reason to think otherwise.”

“I don’t think he’ll be a problem for us.” Charmer said quietly. “If he hates anyone, it’s himself.”

“We all grapple with our humanity.” Dez sighed. She paused to polish off her cigarette, and retrieved another the moment it was extinguished. The stress had her chain smoking. “Well. I’ve pulled some caps from our supplies for your bonus. I wish we could reward you with more.”

Charmer was silent. Desdemona studied her, unease clear on her features. 

“A memory lounger at Mercer would be pretty swell. I’ll put it on our wish list.” Deacon interjected before Desdemona could address the matter, dragging a small smile out of Charmer. An interrogation was the last thing Charmer needed - and Desdemona’s confidence wasn’t something they could afford to lose.

It was a much needed glimmer of normalcy. Deacon had been around long enough to know how powerful distraction and lies proved to be.

“I doubt Irma would appreciate it.” Dez replied dryly, her face illuminated as she lit her cigarette. Steeling herself for the next subject. “So. With the Brotherhood crippled, we’re free to devote the entirety of our people to the assault on the Institute. Charmer’s told me Z1 has a plan in place to take over the relay.” She retrieved a piece of paper from the desk and handed it to Charmer. “That paper has the coordinates of the safehouses we’re launching from. Relay in everyone from those coords.”

The action was casual enough, but the weight of it didn’t go unnoticed. Charmer stared down at the scrawled coordinates, contextless but still utterly priceless. Desdemona had offered her the Railroad’s heart on paper, and trusted her not to burn them for it. It rendered Charmer speechless.

“Once we’re in, we push through and evacuate whoever will let us - and the children, whether they like it or not. I won’t let us be branded as murderers in our finest hour. Then we make sure the Institute will never be able to make slaves again.” Dez’s gaze hardened for a brief moment, years of gathered hate coalescing. It softened with another drag from her cigarette.

“I’ve got one last gift for you before the assault. Rest.” Desdemona patted Charmer’s shoulder. “We begin the assault at three a.m. Ideally most personnel will be asleep and we can keep casualties at a minimum. In the meantime I’m going to get as many people back into fighting shape as I can.” She tilted her head to Deacon. “Which includes you two. Rest. I’ll see you in the Institute.”

Three a.m. They had twelve hours before the final assault began. Judging by how Charmer had paled she was all too aware of the fast approaching deadline.

“Thanks, Dez.” It came out warmer than he’d intended it to - genuine. He’d watched her grow from a young woman into a confident leader. Over the years, through flame and heartache and loss she’d managed to keep things together - and now she was about to lead them in their finest hours. The Railroad’s purpose would be fulfilled at last. A bittersweet thought. What would become of them, when they had done all they could? When the Commonwealth was as safe for synths as it ever could be? 

When Desdemona smiled, he saw the young woman she once was. “No. Thank you. Dismissed.”

\--

Travelling to Mercer was a bygone conclusion. After the Brotherhood raid, there was no way in hell either he or Charmer were going to sleep a wink in HQ. Deacon wasn’t sure if they’d manage to sleep at all with the greatest moment in their lives just ahead, but at least Mercer’s comfort would increase their chances.

Agents bustled forward to greet them when they walked through Mercer’s gates, sneaking away from their work to offer a few words of thanks or exclaimed praise. The Brotherhood had driven more than a few wastelanders to seek refuge in Mercer’s sanctuary, and the Prydwen’s fall had the safehouse settlement in a glorious bustle.

It reminded him of the day Charmer returned from the dead - returned from her first trip to the Institute. Why was it that Mercer’s spirits were at their highest whenever Charmer suffered from the Institute’s shadow?

They climbed the steps to their own personal safehouse. When he shut the door behind them, it felt as if they were removed from the world’s troubles, if only for a little while. The sunlight shining through the windows dimmed, the morning fog coalescing into storm clouds above. It began to rain by the time they’d taken off their equipment, changed their bandages, and warmed some salisbury steak on the wood stove.

Deacon grabbed his plate and sat down on the chaise lounge. He’d forgotten about hunger in the ceaseless action, necessity had pushed it to the back of his mind. Now, he was  _ ravenous _ . Charmer sank down beside him, and together they ate in silence, too enraptured with the wonder that food was to speak. A full belly raised his spirits - or maybe it was the simple domesticity of the situation.

He could get used to it. The feeling scared him.

Charmer was still quiet, once they finished eating. They sat next to each other - her gently leaning against him - and listened to the rain fall. Calm washed over him, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He struggled against his encroaching exhaustion, he wanted to savor every last moment he had before the end. Before everything changed. Things were still as they’d always been - a villain to defeat, a battle to fight, missions to run and structure to distract him. Purpose. The world in which he met Charmer, the world that held his best - and worst - memories.

A weight settled on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. Charmer couldn’t stave off exhaustion as well as he could - her breathing was slow and measured, her head nestled in the crook between his neck and shoulder as if it was made for her. Asleep.

The sound of her even breathing was enough to push him over the edge. Darkness washed over him.

\--

When Deacon awoke, he was lying on his back, stretched across the chaise lounge. Alone. Cold. It was dark. He bolted upright, and pain seared through his leg. He hissed. 

“Painkillers are on the end table.” Charmer’s voice called. Through the haze of pain he found her standing by the north window, illuminated only by the lantern she had lit and propped in front of it. A beacon for lost souls. Thunder rolled in the distance. Still raining.

Deacon stretched out his arm to grab the pill bottle from the end table and tried his best not to grunt as his leg wound made its presence very known. He shook a couple of pills out into his hand and downed them. Within moments the pain dulled - pre-War chemistry at its finest. “Shit. What time is it?” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. How much time had he lost?

“Ten.” Charmer answered. “Hey, don’t-” He had stood, and the movement didn’t go unnoticed by her. She tore her gaze away from the window at last, teeth worrying at her lip. 

“Too late.” Nerves soothed for now. Five hours. Five hours before their lives changed. “If you’re up, I’m up.” 

The look of exasperation she gave him was a welcome one, one she’d given him a hundred times when he cracked a bad joke or nearly burned dinner. It faded too soon, her head turning back to the window. She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against the frame.

Deacon approached her more boldly than he dared on the outside - here he didn’t have to glance around for watchful eyes, didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances. God, he’d missed Mercer. He leaned back against the north wall and studied her features in the warm lantern light.

How long had she been standing there? Her mind was elsewhere, clearly - lost in her own way. Looming reality had turned the two of them to introspection. 

“It’ll be a year next week.” 

Ah. There it was.

An anniversary.  _ The _ anniversary. A year ago her world had ended. A year ago he set eyes on her for the first time, and his world began again. 

“Time flies, doesn’t it.” His wit failed him. He didn’t have any distractions for her, any jokes that would help her forget. Deacon failed her.

Still, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. He hated himself for how he had started to watch her lips. 

“One year ago, I was buying Halloween decorations. Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and the world will be the way it used to be, that I’ll be in a hospital bed and they’ll tell me I hit my head, and you and the Railroad were just the doctors and nurses taking care of me.” 

“Tom’s bedside manner must be awful.”

That got a proper smile out of her. She wasn’t sad, that was clear - or at least, not entirely. Wistful, rather.

“Part of me misses it. Sleeping in without a care in the world, eating whatever I felt like, showering. Thanksgiving at mom’s.” Charmer trailed off, and he reached out for her shoulder yet again. It gave her the nudge she needed to continue. “But out here…”

Charmer turned her body to face him and placed her hand over his on her shoulder. Electricity felt like it was climbing up his arm at the contact. Goosebumps rippled across his skin.

“... out here, I’ve done things I never thought I could do. Learned things about myself, about who I really am - asked questions I never would have if I was safe back there. I know who I am, what I want. It’s only the people that I miss - but…” Her fingertips danced over his knuckles. “... there’s people here I’d miss too.”

Deacon’s hand escaped hers and dropped from her shoulder, dragged down her elbow. He’d meant to remove it entirely, but there was a new warmth to her voice that made physical contact a genuine need. He’d been touch starved for years, and now the scraps he’d fed himself were driving him to gluttony. Against every screaming thought in his mind, he took a step closer to her. He could see his reflection in her eyes. 

“Would you?” he breathed, despising himself for asking such a question, for thinking that he of all people would be enough to make her doubt a return to paradise. “If you could?”

Charmer was silent for a moment before answering. That mysterious determination he’d seen before returned to her eyes, fixed on his behind the shades. “I don’t know.”

The answer sent his mind reeling. He’d known, hadn’t he? Called it hope for too long, berated himself for thinking about it. The answer was plain, had been plain - it was waiting in her eyes, heard with every intake of breath the few times they touched. He thought it was her grief, her efforts to try and fill the hole in her left Nate had left - for why would it be him, of all people, the man who’d killed his wife, the coward, the liar. 

Wind blew in, carrying with it the scent of ozone and fresh water. It tousled her hair. She shivered, glanced outside at the darkened landscape while Deacon wrestled with his thoughts. 

“When all of this is over.” Charmer spoke again, voice still soft as ever, barely audible over the rain. She placed her hand on his chest, as if trying to feel his heartbeat. “When the Railroad’s work is done. What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”

With one question, she’d offered him her heart on a platter. Her eyes were fixed on him, trying to read his answer before he spoke it - anticipatory, fearful. 

“Never been the retiring type. Maybe I’ll travel again. Go piss on the Citadel in the Capital Wasteland for good measure.” 

Lies, always lies. He couldn’t stop them, couldn’t trust his tongue - always backing down at the last moment, always providing a smoke screen. He was a coward until the end.

But he could see the light in her eyes start to die, her gaze drop, the strength flee from her body - and the fear of losing her, of driving her away, overrode everything else. Glory had died. Nothing in life was certain. In five hours she could be gone all the same - and he’d already had a taste of that regret. The real thing could kill him.

“If that’s what you want.” Deacon added, stemming the tide. His voice quivered, the hand at his side started to shake. He reached up and placed it at her back, the contact steadying him instantly. He didn’t pull her inward, couldn’t - already he was nearly overwhelmed.

_ Tell her. Tell her. _

His mouth went dry, and his next words failed him - they weren’t the ones he wanted, the ones that terrified him to say.

“I’m in your corner. Always will be.”

Charmer’s pupils blew wide. Her face drew close to him, eyes lidded, and when she tilted her head he realized what was about to happen.

When her lips connected with his, he froze.

She kissed him.

Her lips were soft, her breath on his cheek warm. Deacon didn’t have time to relish the moment, for she pulled away only a moment after. He was still frozen, transfixed.

Charmer misread it, pain on her features. “I’m sorry.” she whispered.

Deacon dipped his head down and captured her mouth in his. 

It had been years for him, and centuries for her. Their kisses were gentle, nearly chaste - each one a question. So careful had they been that even now they couldn’t give themselves over - the tiniest of actions felt like a tidal wave.

Slowly they grew more familiar. It was as if they were meeting for the first time, yet at the same time it felt  _ right _ . He learned the shape of her lips, how she gasped a little when his stubble scratched at her cheek. He didn’t dare move his hands.

Still, their kisses grew more insistent. When Charmer slipped her arms around his neck and pulled her body against his, he nearly lost himself. Deacon pulled his head back, breaking the kiss. Charmer had leaned forward, as if she was trying to chase his lips.

“Charms.” he breathed. His mind took a few moments to put itself back together, to conceive of a world beyond the few inches between them. 

“Dee.” she returned, somewhat dazed. 

“If we keep going, I’ll... “ he tripped over his own words, all of his wits stolen away by her lips. 

Charmer took her hands off of him and pulled her hair free of its ponytail. Then she reached toward him, pads of her fingers resting on each side of the frames of his sunglasses.

“I want to.” 

After she took off his sunglasses, the rest was a foregone conclusion. They kissed each other as if they were drowning and the other was air, hands roamed across each other’s bodies, skimmed over cloth and skin.

Their actions were stuttered - hands pausing at every item of clothing. They were in disbelief, asking a silent question with every advancement toward the inevitable. Never before had they been this bare, never before had they been this vulnerable - they treated each other as if the wrong action could break them. 

Kisses moved from lips to body, and they stepped back toward the bed. Hands ghosted over bandages and old scars, touches reverent, healing the scars left on the soul. She was soft, so soft that he nearly couldn’t stand it, worried that his rough palms would damage her. 

When the back of her knees hit the bed frame, the gravity of the situation hit. Months of fantasy were about to become real. They still stood on the precipice - their boots were off and so were their shirts, but his hand had only just begun to trace over the clasp of her bra.

Then her palm skimmed down his stomach to the zipper of his jeans, and he was nearly undone.

The two of them fell to the bed, any previous reservations now cast aside. He couldn’t get close enough to her, every layer of cloth was a barrier he couldn’t stand. Their kisses grew rougher, needier, chasing that final high. 

In moments they were bare to one another, their bodies as known to the other as their souls. The realization gave both of them pause, lips breaking free of each other to let their eyes - and hands - wander.

Charmer’s skin was porcelain where it wasn’t marred by the few scars she’d earned in the Commonwealth. Silver lines like lightning bolts spanned across her stomach - battle scars of a different sort. He kissed them all, worshipped her like the saving grace she was. 

He sat back when she began to plea with him, rested his back against the bed frame. He drew her into his lap, rested his hands gently on her hips, terrified of pushing too far, hurting her in this of all moments.

When she sank down onto him, the intimacy he’d been seeking for so long finally was achieved. They were connected, one - as they’d been for months. A force of nature, the two of them, able to do anything as long as they were together.

They scarcely gave each other time to breathe, panting each other’s codenames, grasping at each other as if they’d disappear when they stopped. Charmer was far from the delicate creature he treated her like, thighs powerful, flexing with every movement. Sweating, gasping, kissing - they were defying death, doing all they could to rise above it. A single moment of ecstasy, fought and bled for, shining through the rubble.

Deacon saw stars, felt Charmer’s teeth brush his neck as the final wave hit them both, months of longing reaching a crescendo. She collapsed onto him when it was over, hair wild, head on his shoulder, and looked at him with a dazed smile he’d never forget.

He looked back at her with a lopsided grin, riding the afterglow. They grinned at each other stupidly for a few moments before bursting into laughter.

Elation drowned them. It felt like they’d just cheated death.

Maybe they had. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines day everyone c:


	38. The Snake in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon witnesses history.

Sleep was dreamless, and wonderful.

Deacon was jolted from it by a beeping alarm. 

His eyes snapped open, arm instinctively reaching for his pistol. His fingers brushed soft skin instead.

Charmer.

_ Charmer. _

Memory returned to him as she groaned and rolled over, grabbing her pip-boy from the nightstand. They’d slept together. Been together. He’d thought for the moment it was a dream, one of the fantasies he’d tried to choke down for so long. But here they were - skin to skin. The pip-boy’s green light illuminated the silhouette of her naked form, and he suddenly had trouble breathing again.

Her eyes glimmered, reflecting the green glow.

“It’s time.” she whispered.

Watching her dress felt unreal. He’d seen her change before, but the movements were always hurried and he never let his eyes linger. Now he drank her in, marveled at how he’d been let in on the secret.

Charmer noticed him staring, and paused. “You okay?”

A smile crept over his face. Even after all they’d done, she still had the cautious trepidation of a teenager on their first date. “Yeah. Just enjoying the view.”

She grabbed his jeans from the floor and tossed them at him in reply. He laughed, though it soon turned into a whine when he tugged them on over his bandages.

Fully dressed, Charmer walked her pack over to him. “Take some med-x. We’re going to need it.”

He glanced at the clock. 2:30. Thirty minutes, and they’d be in the thick of it. Cold settled over him, the hair on his exposed arms standing on end.

They helped each other tug on body armor, tightened flak jackets. Charmer tied up her hair while he loaded their weapons and prepped their arsenal. 

By 2:45, they were as ready as they’d ever be. The med-x kept him from shaking, the contemplation of what the future held washing over him. This could be the last time they were partners, could be the last moments where the Railroad existed. The year working at her side to down the Institute was coming to an end, and he knew he’d miss it.

Charmer grabbed his shades from the nightstand and offered them to him. He stayed her hand, leaning in for one last kiss.

It spoke all the words his liar’s tongue could not.

He let her slide the sunglasses back over his eyes, ghosted his fingers over the bit of her neck that wasn’t covered by body armor. He could feel her quickened pulse. She was as worried as he was.

“Alright, Charms.” Deacon cleared his throat and spoke in his usual casual drawl - though now it bloomed with warmth and affection. The effect on Charmer was instantaneous, a glimmer of that Old World smile crossing her features. “You ready to make history?”

A small nod, a deep breath. “We’ll stop them. For Glory.” A swallow. “For Nate.”

“For High Rise. For Tommy Whispers.” He took her face into his hands, unable to keep from touching her. Calloused thumbs stroked her cheek, and he rested his forehead against hers. “Get us in there, and I’ve got your back.” Deacon released her and stepped back. 2:50. She had ten minutes to take the relay.

Charmer raised her pip-boy, dialling in the frequency. Before she flipped the switch, she inhaled sharply. 

“I love you.”

Blue light enveloped her, and she was gone.

\--

The rush of adrenaline carried him down the stairs to the barracks where the agents had gathered, waiting to be broken down on the molecular level and transported into the belly of the beast. 

Some prayed. Others chatted excitedly. Deacon was one of the quiet ones, wondering if this same scene was playing out in every other safehouse.

The clock struck 3:00 AM. Nothing.

3:05.

3:10.

Nervous whispers began. Deacon tried to keep his breathing even, stave off the panic that was crawling up his throat.

3:15.

_ What had he done? _

3:20.

Agents were shifting restlessly, openly discussing their worries.

3:22.

The world in front of him disappeared.

\--

It smelled  _ clean _ . That was the only word to describe it. The air he breathed felt like purified water - odorless, lacking any particles. Sterile.

The relay chamber was dim, filled with orange light. Desdemona stood at its entrance, cigarette in hand and the widest smile he’d ever seen on her face.

“The years of living in hiding. Afraid of every footfall, suspicious of every stranger. And now here we are. Threatening the devil himself.” The awe in her tone was felt by all.

He hurried out of the chamber as more agents blinked in next to him. Tinker Tom was busy at the main console. Charmer was conversing with a man in the cleanest clothes he’d ever seen. A bruise was forming at her temple. The reason for the delay became clear when he saw the bodies littering the floor.

Her face lit up when she saw him. “Dee.”

It took an immense amount of self control not to embrace her. Half an hour had almost brought him to his knees, and he was reminded of why he’d tried to avoid his feelings for so long. Instead he stopped a couple of feet away from her, far enough to keep his hands from finding hers. Her gaze was far away, eyes filled with pain. The only tell as to her mental state - he wondered if anyone else would even know something was amiss. She knew what was to come. It wasn’t bullets she had to watch out for.

“This is Z1.” Charmer introduced the man next to her, professionalism masking her inner turmoil. Z1. The synth who’d deferred his own escape to bring his people their freedom.

“I apologize for the delay.” Z1 began with the trademark politeness of an Institute dwelling synth. There was an intensity in his gaze that the newly escaped lacked, though - a hatred that had been unleashed at last. “We had the unfortunate timing of meeting a Courser.”

Deacon followed the man’s gaze to a jacketed figure slumped in a dark corner. “Holy shit.” That explained the bruise. The urge to crush Charmer to him was strong. 

“Indeed.” Z1 agreed. He turned his attention back to Charmer, continuing from wherever he’d left off. “The Institute has already locked down the facility. However, in their hubris the Directorate has overlooked one particular backdoor. When their synth program was developed, their previous research into robotics was scrapped. An entire sector was abandoned and left to go dark. That’s our way in.”

“Poetic justice.” Deacon muttered, glancing back to her nervously. “So what are we waiting on?”

“The Courier.” Charmer answered, just as Tom raised his voice. 

“Okay, everyone, clear the chamber! I don’t know how this is going to react, but..” They all turned to watch his fingers dancing over the keys, agents hurriedly jogging out from the chamber. “Bringing the Courier in, Dez!”

Light flooded the relay chamber, strings of lightning flashing out from its entrance. Then a series of heavy and familiar  _ thuds _ that gave him a chill on reflex.

Everyone but Desdemona and Tom seemed shocked as a figure in power armor he’d never seen before entered, a minigun in hand. When he saw the railsign for  _ danger _ scrawled on its side, he realized it was Glory’s.

So  _ this _ was what had Desdemona tracking down power armor - the secret project that even Deacon couldn’t learn about from Tom. He didn’t know how the fuck the Courier learned how to operate power armor, but with the full might of the Institute in front of them he didn’t exactly care.

Desdemona raised her voice, now taking on the role of a general. “Listen up! We’re about to march straight into hell, and I want all of you to come through the other side. The Courier takes point. Stay behind her or cover if you want to live through this. If you are fired on, defend yourself -  _ do not _ bring harm to innocents. Watch your fire, keep incendiary use to a minimum. There are children here.” She surveyed the crowd in front of her, the Railroad’s last gasp. There were more agents than he’d ever seen, but their numbers were still so small. They fit in the relay room fairly comfortably. “Once security forces are dealt with, evacuate everyone you see. Remember why you joined us in the time ahead of us - these will be our finest hours. Godspeed.”

“Let’s light them up.” The Courier’s voice was distorted in her helmet, not quite her own. Deacon dimly recalled tales of Valkyries in battered books he read as he watched her, ready to ensure that Glory’s light was not yet lost.

The group began to move. He grabbed Charmer’s hand, holding her back for just a few sacred moments.

“Charms, what you said before - I…” The words wouldn’t come, even now. “I do too. I have for… for a while. Whatever happens, it’s not going to change that.”

He kissed her quickly. The sadness in her eyes coalesced into determination. She opened her mouth to say something in return, but the group was well on its way. They’d run out of time.

\--

The halls of Old Robotics were eerie, but nothing like he’d imagined the Institute to be. They resembled the old world labs that still managed to remain mostly intact - wall and floor panels were missing, instruments ripped out of their outlets, wiring everywhere. Inactive and half finished robots lay on dusty conveyor belts. It was like a haunted house for machines.

If haunted houses were crawling with Gen 1s.

Light from the muzzle of the Courier’s minigun illuminated their dark surroundings in flashes, the flare from agents’ pistols and rifles looking like tiny stars. Streaks of blue light joined the yellow, hissing as they fried the air.

Casualties had already begun. Desdemona brought up the rear, shouting orders and dispatching medical attention where they could. When they reached the main hall of the old wing, multiple Coursers joined the fray.

They were pinned. The Courier was working as suppressive fire, more than anything - buying agents time to hurl out pulse and plasma grenades. Gen 1 parts went flying with the shrapnel, but the waves just kept coming.

If their end came here, so soon out the gates, he’d have a strong word with whoever the hell was in charge on the other side.

Deacon ducked out of cover to fire a few shots, and when he returned Charmer was gone. He looked around wildly to see her making a beeline for a terminal - right in the middle of the firing line.

“Cover her!” He screamed, voice hoarse. 

Desdemona realized what was happening soon after, echoing his command. “Suppressive fire!”

A courser broke free of the ranks on the other side of the hall, sprinting toward Charmer. Deacon nearly jumped over his cover, but Desdemona hauled him back.

Metal hit the ground. Desdemona could hold Deacon back - but she couldn’t restrain the Courier.

She dropped the minigun and charged the Courser, the two connecting in a shower of sparks. Laser fire glanced off of her metal plating. The two grappled, the Courser fast, Courier slow - but she managed to pin it to the ground and slam her fist into its head. It burst like a melon.

Charmer busied herself at the terminal, hardly flinching when blood splattered across her boots. Deacon spotted more movement further down the hall - but this wasn’t a synth.

A deactivated sentry bot roared to life, chewing through the enemy forces. Charmer raced back into cover, her work buying them time to get their injured to safety. By the time the sentry bot was finally felled, the resulting explosion took out the squad of Gen 1s that remained.

They pushed onward, through the smoke and flame, the steady beats of the Courier’s footsteps their marching drum. 

At last, they reached a double set of doors. When they breezed open, they witnessed the Institute’s true heart.

Deacon was left speechless. The place seemed to  _ glow _ , metal polished to a shine, clean white floors, minimalist architecture and lines. Water -  _ pure _ water - flowed under walkways, danced in fountains. Something so precious used as decor. Trees, greener than he’d ever seen, trunks straight and leaves pruned encircled the main chamber. Thick lush grass sat in curated patches. Above, the darkness was peppered by a thousand tiny lights on the domed roof, replicating stars. 

They had breached the Garden of Eden. 

It wasn’t something the Institute had expected, clearly, for at the sight of them scientists milling about the ‘park’ ran, some screaming. 

Pride was the greatest of the deadly sins.

Slowly the Courier stepped forward, swinging her minigun back and forth in a wide arc. The flashlight on her helmet shone through the ambient blue surroundings, turning back and forth as if she was a lighthouse. 

It was quiet, now that the scientists had fled.

“Heavies, move up.” Desdemona commanded. “Carefully. I don’t like this.”

Deacon and Charmer crept forward with a handful of other agents. As soon as Charmer’s head passed into the light, all hell broke loose.

Synths and Coursers alike poured in from all sides. Blood was spilled across the Institute’s pristine floors, its fountains tinged red. Humans and synths alike fell, bound in death. The glass elevator at the center of the room shattered, shards sprinkling down like deadly snow.

He and Charmer were too close. They both tried to dive out of the way. Too late.

Their flak jackets tore, protective fabric ensuring that they received jagged cuts instead of deep wounds. Still, their blood was added to the spray below - an offering. 

“Get to the reactor!” Desdemona screamed over the fray, turning and shooting a synth before it could stab an agent. He’d forgotten how good of a shot she was.

They pushed forward, and the others followed. The gunfire was unending now, the entire atrium turned into an arena.

The doors to the reactor chamber were closing. Deacon glanced to his left to see  _ Tom _ of all people sprinting up beside him, trying desperately to get there in time. 

They failed.

Tom slammed into the now shut doors and cursed. He pulled back, glancing around. He found a terminal and seized it. Deacon and Charmer spun around, laying down fire to keep Tom unharmed. “Damn. Lockdown’s come from the Director’s chambers.”

Deliverer stopped firing. Deacon looked over at Charmer. The blood had drained from her face.

She couldn’t avoid it. There was no running from it anymore.

“You’ll have to override it from there.” Tom finished. “You uh, know how to get there? I can download a map onto your-”

“I know.” Charmer replied tonelessly. She turned her head. The look she gave Deacon was like that of a scared child, seeking comfort.

“I’ve got you.” His voice made Tom do a double take, but it seemed to give Charmer some strength.

“See if you can’t disable security while you’re there. Should make our job a lot easier.” Tom adjusted his headgear. “I’m going to see what data I can get before we blow this place.”

True to her word, Charmer knew where she was heading. They walked a semicircle around the chamber, ducking gunfire. A missile collided with a wall close enough for them to feel the heat. She dipped into an alcove, up a ramp - here they came across more panicked scientists, looking at her with expressions of utter betrayal.

Deacon couldn’t get over how clean everything was. He hadn’t seen white until now, not truly. The place was something out of a science fiction novel - it was what humanity could have achieved, if it hadn’t cut itself down two centuries ago.

It was a sanctuary guided by the hand of her son.

They stopped two landings up and made a turn into a small chamber. Part of it looked like a child’s bedroom, surrounded by glass. Deacon realized with horror that a child was slumbering within it, deaf to the chaos of the outside world. 

Charmer kept her eyes fixed forward even as her steps stuttered. Time was of the essence, lives were depending on them - she couldn’t afford to fall apart now. They climbed a small set of stairs to a bedroom loft, and Charmer ground to a halt.

An old man lay in a bed in front of a large window overlooking the main atrium. His head was turned, observing the chaos below. Wires and IV lines led away from his arms, monitors reading his vital signs and giving out insistent beeps. Weakly he turned his head. 

The head of the Institute. Father.  _ Shaun _ .

He looked like Nate, but his eyes were Charmer’s. They beheld his mother with a hatred that gave him pause.

Charmer stepped forward. “Shaun. I need the code to stop the lockdown.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again. I don’t suspect you’re here because you’ve changed your mind.” He wheezed. “You had me fooled. I honestly thought you were on our side.” The old man’s voice was as weak as his body, but it held every last bit of venom he could muster. “I trusted you. I thought… you understood. You’ve doomed us, you know. Whatever… misguided ethics and lies you’ve been told… whatever revenge you seek… it’s not just the Institute you’re dooming. It’s humanity. It’s not enough that I lay here, dying - now you plan on destroying everything.”

One last ditch effort to pull her away, to guilt her into his side.

“Shaun.” Charmer repeated. By some miracle, her voice was even. “I need the code. People are dying.”

“Why should I give it to you?” The question echoed a petulant child. “So you can destroy my life’s work? My home? So you can…” He fell into a coughing fit. “... let anarchy rule over humanity, have them kill each other over tainted water? You know as well as I that the Commonwealth is doomed.” Shaun raised his head, squinting over at where Deacon stood. His expression darkened. “Or are you… so easily convinced… for all your hatred of what Kellogg did, how soon you’ve moved on.”

It was a cheap shot. Deacon was practised enough not to take the bait, remaining by the door in case any further hostiles approached. Charmer rose to the occasion.

“You should give it to me so that your people can live. We’re evacuating. We’re not murderers.” Somehow she extended her hand and placed it on his arm. She left a streak of blood on his white sheets. “Please.”

“Very well. I suppose… it doesn’t matter, now.” Shaun rasped. Deacon didn’t hear whatever he murmured next. Charmer left his bedside to type commands into the terminal.

The ambient lighting of the atrium turned white, illuminating their surroundings as if someone had turned on the sun. A woman’s voice, calm and clear, began to repeat evacuation instructions. The gunfire below slowed, then was silenced.

Never in his life had Deacon known what utter silence was like. Always there was some machine humming, the wind blowing, wood creaking. Now it was as if he drifted in a void, asleep.

The experience was once in a lifetime. He’d never see a place like this again - and never see a moment like this again.

Charmer withdrew back to Shaun’s bedside. Her return seemed to give the man pause.

“So… one question remains, then. Why are you still standing here? Is it regret, or have you come to gloat over how you’ve -” Another wheezing cough. “- defeated evil?” Deacon could hear the barest echo of Charmer in his weak sarcasm, and it gave him chills.

“No, Shaun.” Charmer reached out to her son again, brushed the hair from his forehead. Deacon heard her sniff - knew she must have been crying. “I came to see if I can save you.”

Shaun laughed, a bitter thing. “This isn't some fairy tale, mother. There's no saving me. I'm dying, and you're going to destroy everything I've ever loved.” He inhaled deeply, breath rattling. “You’re going to have to live with that. Now… if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone for my last moments. Go, do what you must.” He turned his head back to the window, away from her. “I hope someday you will realize what will be lost here.”

Charmer didn’t move, her hands still resting on the pure white sheets, every bit of contact from her soiling them further.

“When you were born… we didn’t know if you’d make it.” she began, her voice as weak as her son’s. “We were terrified we’d lose you. You were… so small…” 

Droplets of her blood hit the floor, finally soaking through her flak jacket.

“I prayed to whatever was out there that if we could bring you home, I’d do whatever it took to make you the happiest boy on Earth.” He knew from the sound of her voice that she was speaking through tears. It was strained, desperate. A mother’s last gift to her son, an attempt to pour sixty years worth of love into a few minutes. “Shaun, if I could... if it was ever possible, I wouldn’t have let it come to this. We knew you’d do… great things. We were right. I just wish I could have found you. Before this.”

Silence. Charmer turned away. Deacon saw the paths her tears had left in the dirt and blood on her face, her eyes red and puffy.

“Mother.”

She stopped in her tracks.

Shaun continued, his voice nearly inaudible. “The… door, outside. The code will open it. Take him. I meant him as… a gift, when you destroyed the Railroad. It’d be a waste to leave him.”

The disgust he felt was palpable, but he hid it, unwilling to let Charmer see. Horror had washed over her features.

“Goodbye, mother.”

One last gift, from son to mother. One last curse.

\--

The boy slept when they opened the chamber door, and did not stir when Charmer nudged him, nor when she drew him up into her arms. He was alive, that much was clear. Shaun wasn’t so sadistic.

Desdemona was smoking another cigarette when they returned to the atrium, flicking the ashes into the pool below. Her eyes scanned their surroundings with a mixture of awe and disgust, occasionally sweeping over the still figures of deactivated synths. The Courier’s power armor lay abandoned, joining the silent figures, its fusion cores depleted.

They stepped over spent shells and pools of blood, tried not to look at the corpses. Dez’s expression lightened when she caught sight of them.

“Good work. We’ve begun evac. The reactor chamber’s open. I’ve got a team to escort you.” She studied the boy in Charmer’s arms. “What happened to his parents?”

“Dead.” Charmer breathed, voice hollow.

Dez dipped her head and took a long drag to steady herself. Then she tossed the cigarette into the fountain. “I’ll get him to Tom, he’ll head to HQ with him when we pull out.”

Charmer passed the boy over to Dez somewhat reluctantly. Deacon saw her chest rise and fall, desperately trying to maintain composure. Desdemona held the boy in a strangely practiced way, a hint to the life before the code name.

“Their last holdouts are in the chamber.” she called over her shoulder, walking back to the relay with the boy in arms. “You’ll meet heavy resistance.”

The Institute’s last blows couldn’t be worse than what he’d just witnessed.

\--

They came close. 

The reactor was the Institute’s beating heart, and they refused to give it up so easily. It was immune to the security lockdown, and the rows of turrets and last few synths ensured the Railroad lost more lives before their work was done. By the time they reached the room the reactor resided in, it was down to him, Charmer, and two other agents. 

He ran out of ammo just before a missile hit the ground near Charmer and the other agents. The three of them were knocked aside like ragdolls and sent sprawling to the ground. Deliverer flew from Charmer’s hands and clattered to the grate floor.

Deacon had to make a calculated choice. It’d take just a few moments for a missile to be reloaded - whatever time he spent trying to drag Charmer to safety would just end in both of their deaths. The same result would occur if he tried to get a stimpack in her. 

He threw his empty rifle aside, scooped Deliverer up from the ground, and sprinted out into the open, trying to zig zag and utilize cover as much as he could. As suspected, instruments behind him exploded into a fireball only a few moments after he began his mad dash.

The synth with the missile launcher was on scaffolding above the reactor core. Another was taking shots at him with a rifle. To leave the line of sight of one left him exposed to the other. As he sprinted up the steps, he realized that he may have just undertaken a suicide mission.

His thumb brushed up the Deliverer's grip, felt the grooves of the engraved lettering. 

_ Tommy. Glory. You’ve done this shit before. Help me pull this off. _

A bullet grazed his arm. He felt the sting before he felt the blood, but he didn’t stop. A missile blew the ramp behind him to scrap metal, and still he continued.

He had to make it. He was the only one left who could clear a path for Charmer. 

Ever the consummate survivor.

At last he made it to the top of the scaffolding. The synth with the missile launcher was closest, dropping another explosive in the barrel of the launcher. At this range, it’d blow them both apart - but a synth wasn’t programmed to care about its own life.

Deacon raised Deliverer and inhaled, squeezing the trigger. The synth went down, missile launcher collapsing on top of it. He moved his arm to aim at the synth with the rifle. It was a long shot, too long for a pistol. He had no cover. If he missed, he was dead.

He took the shot, and waited.

Nothing.

Maybe he’d start believing in ghosts.

Deacon scrambled down the scaffolding, jumping down from where it had been twisted from the missile hit. Charmer was up and crawling by the time he reached her. The other agents were sickeningly still, limbs bent at terrible angles.

She was sucking in breaths through her teeth, hand hovering over her jaw. She whimpered in pain.

“Hold on.” He opened her pack and dug through it for their first aid kit, giving her a quick diagnostic glance as he did so. She looked alright from the outside - her jacket had been burned and scorched, but the flames hadn’t eaten through to her core. He fished out a stimpak and some med-x and rounded back to the front of her.

When Charmer moved her hand, he realized where the damage was. On the left side of her, starting just below her cheek and trailing down to her collarbone, her skin had been melted. Bits of fabric and cloth were burned into it.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” he breathed at the sight, bedside manner going out the window. Charmer couldn’t speak from the pain, and hurriedly he injected her with the stimpak and med-x. “I’ve got you. We’re almost there.”

The sound that came from her throat was guttural. He stroked her hair, tried to get it away from her burns, and waited until the med-x took effect. Soon her whimpers of pain slowed, her breathing evened out.

“H… help me.” Her voice sounded  _ wrong _ , as she tried to speak while moving her jaw as little as possible. Deacon slung her arm around his shoulder, and stood with her.

Slowly, they approached the reactor core. Her eyes were unfocused, but she managed to enter in the necessary commands to the terminal. Their surroundings went dark as the reactor was disabled and radiation vented, emergency lights kicking in a moment after. 

The core opened. Blue light spilled out from inside. 

A pang of regret hit him, staring at that little metal sphere enveloped in gentle light. The construct was perhaps the most advanced thing the world would ever see.

It was built on the backs of slaves. Would be used to create more slaves.

A world without tech, he could live in. A world without good, he couldn’t.

Charmer managed to detach the fusion charge from her belt. Her fingers fumbled to arm it, but she succeeded, pressing it against that beautiful little sphere.

They did it. No matter what happened to them now, the Commonwealth was free. 

“You’re amazing.” Deacon murmured. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

\--

The atrium was empty. Charmer guided him to the central elevator, told him what floor to hit. He held her close, the elevator’s glass surroundings destroyed, and tried not to look down.

Dez, Tom, and the Courier were all that awaited them when they reached the relay chamber at last. The boy was awake now, and when he caught sight of Charmer he panicked.

“Mom!”

All three of them stared at Charmer. It wasn’t certain if it was the boy’s exclamation or Charmer’s burns which horrified them more.

“Mom?” Charmer choked out, hand flinching toward her jaw reflexively. Deacon couldn’t imagine the pain she was in earlier if the med-x had made so moderate a dent. 

The boy blinked at her. “Did… did you hit your head? I woke up and these strange people were here, and all of the lights are wrong, and I don’t see anyone I know but they said to wait here and that you would come, and…”

Charmer stared at the boy numbly. It only served to distress him further. 

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Shaun. Your son.”  _ A gift. _ A synthetic child, the one Charmer had spoken of - a monument to narcissism, the spitting image of Father. There was an eerie intelligence in the boy’s eyes - Charmer’s eyes, but not quite. “You… were going to come back here, after your last trip, but everything’s…”

Desdemona looked visibly shaken. Tom glanced between the boy and Charmer, confused. The Courier only looked exhausted, Glory’s minigun resting by her feet.

“I know who you are, sweetheart.” Charmer breathed. It was enough to bolster the boy’s spirits, drive away a little of the fear. “Tom’s going to… take you somewhere safe. I’ll be there soon. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shaun - the  _ synth _ Shaun - walked over to Tom’s side by the relay terminal. He watched the terminal screens and Tom’s fingers tap at the keys with a burning curiosity.

“We… have a lot to discuss.” Desdemona was nearly speechless, but barrelled through to continue with the plan. “Tom’s going to relay us to the detonator. You’ve earned the honors.”

Charmer merely nodded. Her posture sagged. Deacon prayed their destination was close to a clinic.

The four of them stepped into the relay chamber. Desdemona was the first to disappear - in the seconds before they left, the Courier spoke.

“They aren’t honors. They’re your duty. Know what you’ve done, whatever it may be.”

The world went white, and the Institute - and a glimmering, dark future for humanity - was left behind. 

\--

Cool air surrounded him. Water fell on the top of his head. His shades fogged. It was still dark, the last hour of the night. The hell that they had been through hadn’t even lasted til sunrise.

A detonator was set up at the roof’s edge. Deacon could make out the faded marble of CIT’s ruins in the distance - their white seemed a sad imitation, after what he had seen. Z1, Drummer Boy, the Courier, Desdemona - all were gathered in a small semicircle.

This wasn’t what he imagined victory being like, feeling like, when he’d dared to imagine it at all. Bloodied and tired men and women, who’d seen too much loss for a lifetime, simply waiting to see if perhaps all the sacrifice had been worth it.

Charmer took a step forward and stumbled. Deacon moved to support her, let her lean on him as she approached the detonator.

They had made it this far together. They’d end it the same way. Everyone’s gaze - save the Courier’s - settled on the horizon.

The Courier’s eyes were fixed on Charmer’s face.

Deacon released her when they reached the detonator. She swayed on the spot. He moved behind her, chest at her back and hands on her hips, making sure she didn’t fall. He promised he’d have her back.

Charmer moved her hand to the button. With her touch, her dying son and his life’s work would turn to ash. She would kill the man she had crossed time and the Commonwealth to save. A tragedy two hundred years in the making would finally reach its climax.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered, and her palm pressed downward.

The light hit first. Soundless, a nearly blinding flash. He watched the fireball rise, a shockwave ripple outward. After three seconds, the  _ boom _ hit, loud enough to rattle his ribcage. Charmer fell backward against him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her up. 

Boston was illuminated, rain slicked stone and steel reflecting the yellow and orange fireball in a glimmering display. 

Her journey began and ended with a nuclear explosion. War never changed.

Deacon looked at her face, then, as the Courier had. Her expression was one he’d never seen before, and never would again. It was as if she had looked into the face of God - awe, horror, self hate, regret. 

He rested his chin on the top of her head and spoke lowly. “Some dusty old philosopher thought people were made of metals that defined their character.” Deacon dipped his chin and kissed the top of her head. “And you, my  _ friend _ \- ” He spoke it like an in joke, purred the word more than anything. “- are solid gold.”

“Plato.” Charmer murmured. “I don’t think… I’m fit to rule, though…”

She fell limp against him.

Now, she could rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more, and it's the end. I'm so sad. Thank you all for your comments, they've helped buoy me through updating this monstrosity.


	39. Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life doesn't stop after the end.

The atmosphere in HQ was not one of victory. 

Ashen faces watched as Deacon and those privileged few who watched Charmer hit the detonator walked in. He cradled her in his arms, tried to keep the burned side of her away from prying eyes. 

_ Show’s over. _

He didn’t know if it was exhaustion, pain, or worse that had overwhelmed the woman he held. Whatever it was, he brought her to HQ’s makeshift clinic before Dez got through the door.

It was overwhelmed. Nearly all the mattresses in the crypt had been utilized to host the injured and dying. Carrington had strong armed a couple agents to help change bandages and clean wounds. Their assault was not one without casualty.

Carrington’s face was one of momentary dread when he saw Charmer limp in Deacon’s arms, but a quick assessment had it fade to grim determination. That quelled some of Deacon’s own panic - but not by much.

The next hour was nearly worse than the assault on the Institute. Charmer’s burns ran deeper than med-x could numb, waking from consciousness only to scream as Carrington began the work of debriding her wounds. Deacon held her down and spoke whatever lies and tales he could to try and distract her while she bit down on a rag.

When it was over, she’d soaked the mattress with sweat and laid panting, her face and neck wrapped in thick bandages. He batted away any attempts to tend to his own wounds, holding her hand until unconsciousness took her again.

No good deed went unpunished.

He insisted his own wound care be kept minimal. No drugs, no stitching for minimal scarring. There were more important things to tend to than him.

Deacon stayed at her side, as out of the way as he could manage. He took to watching the rest of the crypt when the sight of her pained face became too much. Desdemona was making her rounds slowly with a clipboard in hand, tallying the dead. Drummer Boy sat near Tom’s workstation, numbly listening to their resident inventor ramble on in his attempt to drown out the noises of pain. Z1 murmured animatedly to three synths still in Institute uniform.

The Courier spoke with a small boy in the corner.

_ Shaun. _

Deacon had nearly forgotten about him, in all of the chaos. The boy’s arrival was just a small wave in a sea of madness. 

Had the boy heard his mother’s struggle? Had he watched?

Guilt flooded him as he studied the boy’s body language. Shaun hunched inward, gripped his forearm, kept his eyes to the ground. He’d seen enough, Deacon concluded.

Thank god for the Courier, for she took her beret off of her head and placed it onto the boy’s. It sank down to his eyebrows and jostled a laugh out of him. At that moment, the Courier lifted her eyes and caught sight of Deacon with his hand laid over Charmer’s.

She stared at him for a few moments, then gave an approving nod.

He returned it.

\--

Deacon didn’t know when he fell asleep.

When he woke, every inch of him ached. Someone had dragged him to a sleeping bag, at least, but it wasn’t nearly enough to soften the crypt floor. The lights were dimmed, and sound was minimal - low voices, quiet footsteps, the occasional whimper of pain. It seemed someone had declared everyone had earned a collective rest. For the first time in a long time, HQ was still.

He raised his head and found Charmer’s sleeping form on the mattress across from him - and a little figure sitting beside it, holding her hand.

“She’ll be fine.” Deacon spoke quietly. A lie, maybe - time would tell.

Shaun flinched, looking over at him with eerily quick reflexes. “I’m sorry.” he apologized. “I just-”

“Relax, champ. I’m not a real rules type. Don’t have to worry about trouble from me.” He grunted as he stretched his legs out, both now healing from some type of wound. 

The boy squinted at him suspiciously. “I’ve been warned about people like you.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah. You’re a bad influence.”

Deacon couldn’t help but give a dry chuckle at that. “Well. That’s... correct, I’m sorry to say. But I promise, as long as Charms is around, you don’t have to worry about me influencing anything.”

“Why do you call mom that?”

The question caught him off guard. He supposed Father - the  _ original _ Shaun - hadn’t known to program in Charmer’s Railroad identity into the boy’s memories. It brought the truth of the child’s purpose back to the forefront of his mind. Deacon covered his wince with a smile. “It’s her code name. She didn’t tell you she was a spy?”

“You’re lying.”

Deacon’s smile only grew bigger. “It’s true! We’re all spies here. Your mom’s Charmer, I’m Deacon, you were just talking to the Courier-”

It was Shaun’s turn to interrupt. “That’s a job, not a codename.”

The kid was a know-it-all, that was fast becoming clear. “Is that what she told you? Well, so’s Deacon - but I uh, really doubt they taught you much about the wonderful world of Catholicism when you were down in that scientific utopia.” It was hard not to spit out the last two words - he tried to keep in mind that for all intents and purposes, that ‘scientific utopia’ was all that Shaun knew. 

“You’re not a priest.” 

The kid was  _ good _ .

“Yeah. So I’m not lying. Look -” Deacon made a show of glancing around conspiratorially. “- you’re going to need a code name too, if you’re going to stick around.”

Shaun’s eyes grew large. “A code name.” He whispered, any previous skepticism replaced by excitement. He looked over at his mother for a quick moment, as if meaning to ask her permission. A flush crept over the boy’s cheeks when he realized his mistake. “Do I… do I have to think of one now?”

“No rush, sport.” He couldn’t help but sprinkle a few dashes of pre-War dad into his speech, thinking of old advertisements and cheesy dialogue. “Just remember - it has to be yours. If anyone gives you one, it doesn’t count.”

“Okay, Mr. Deacon.”

“It’s Deacon. Just Deacon.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Deacon sighed and rolled onto his back. The kid was earnest, but he talked like - well, like what he was - a newly escaped synth. Shaun was an odd mix of overly polite and terrified, and thinking about what had caused him to act that way made him thankful they’d watched the Institute go down in flames.

Charmer whimpered in her sleep.

He doubted she felt the same way.

\--

The next day, they took out the agents who’d died in the night. Desdemona added another few crosses to her list.

Charmer wasn’t one of them, and for that he was ever thankful.

Carrington changed her bandages in the morning, and this time she tried to bite back her cries of agony. The damage was extreme - deep red-black wounds sunken into her cheek and jaw, skin around them angry, red, and textured. Even if they had Institute technology, the wound wasn’t going to heal without serious scarring.

The Commonwealth finally marked her.

She was able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time once he’d given her another dose of med-x and some breakfast. She peered up at him one-eyed, the other covered by bandages.

“How bad is it?” Charmer ventured, tongue heavy.

“You should see the other guy.” Deacon returned with his best attempt at a smile. 

“Bad, then.” she read his joke like a book. For an instant he marvelled at how well she understood him, what it was to have someone like her - and he was immediately overwhelmed with the knowledge that  _ she had made it. _

It was over.

They didn’t have the axe over their heads anymore.

Oh, he’d known it when he saw the fireball in the sky, knew it when they had placed the fusion charge on the reactor - but now he  _ truly _ knew. Every flicker of worry for if they’d last long, every prefacing of  _ ‘when the Institute’s gone’ _ \- they were dust now. Smoke. Gone. 

“You’re still the pretty one.” He sat down on the mattress beside her and did his best not to jostle her too much. “That’s not a joke. You’ve got enough face for two people.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “If you insist.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, her cross-legged with her breakfast in her lap, his hand on her knee. He couldn’t help but dwell on how victory didn’t quite feel how he’d thought it would. With Charmer’s injuries - and the hollow look in her eyes - he was getting caught up in how they could have done things differently. Their mistakes. He didn’t feel the overwhelming joy he’d thought he would now - he just felt like he could finally lay his head down. Relieved.

A familiar leggy figure approached and leaned on a nearby pillar. The Courier. “You’re awake.” she greeted Charmer, breaking the silence.

“You didn’t hear?” Charmer made a joke at her own expense, tone flat. “Don’t know if I cried that hard when-” She fell silent abruptly, the smokescreen of comfort they had made blown away in an instant by memory.

“I was helping with the dead. No.” The Courier’s tone was just as emotionless as Charmer’s, her dark eyes inquisitive. “So. You did it.”

Charmer scraped at the edges of her breakfast tray, bent fork scraping against the aluminum. Pushed the remnants of food into a neat little pile. The action seemed to soothe her. “Yeah.” she breathed, making eye contact with the Courier. “We did.”

“You were the one with the in. The information. Think it’s pretty safe to say it was your doing.” The Courier countered, and continued before Charmer could get a word in edgewise. “Whether you like it or not. Luck, or fate - whatever you’d like to call the bitch - you got picked.” A smile - tired, but genuine. Rare for the Courier. “I’m glad.”

“I’d be dead at least twice over before I got to do anything if it wasn’t for you.” Charmer set her breakfast tray aside and let her hand rest on top of Deacon’s. The ease that she did it with sent sparks down his spine. “Deacon and I would be dead at Ticon. And… when you were in the power armor…”

“She’s got a point. That’s not even counting the hypothetical butterfly effect shit.” He added, trying to distract the Courier. It didn’t work. Those dark eyes travelled to where her hand - pale, unblemished - covered his.

“Things find a way.” she murmured. “People like you and I, we don’t get to die.” 

Deacon hoped she was right, however grave her tone sounded. 

She swallowed and tore her gaze away from their clasped hands. Cleared her throat. That fragile smile returned. “I was going to ask you what your plans were, but I guess I have my answer.”

“Haven’t discussed anything.” Deacon cut in, perhaps too sharply. He felt Charmer withdraw, and looked at her. He gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. “Institute’s gone, synths saved, and we’re both alive.” They were all things he’d never thought he’d say, and they felt like lies on his lips. “You gave the Commonwealth one hell of a show. So what’s the encore, Charmer?”

He was still giving her an out. Deacon knew he wouldn’t be able to handle if she took the offer, but he gave it nevertheless. That night at Mercer - he’d seen enough in his life to know that what took place the night before a suicide mission was often fuelled by desperation, not desire. Even if he’d been filled with a heady mix of both at the time.

“Is there a show to give anymore?” she returned his question with one of her own. “If there is, I don’t like to leave things unfinished.” Her fingers crept back over his palm, traced over the veins in his wrist. “I’ll still need a partner.”

He didn’t know the Railroad would last more than a few more weeks before disbanding, if the two of them would still walk those familiar paths down Boston following the Freedom Trail. He didn’t know if there’d be people near the ally railsigns anymore, if caches would still be stashed through the city. If the world they’d come together in would be the same.

But as he looked at her - at the hesitant hope in her gaze - he knew they’d find something. Some cause, some adventure. Just living life  _ with her _ would be an adventure all its own, a future he’d never conceived of. 

Deacon leaned toward her and gently pressed his forehead to hers. He couldn’t kiss her - not with her wounds - but it felt just as forward. “Of course, partner.” he answered. “Once more, unto the breach.”

“You done quoting Shakespeare at each other?” 

The Courier’s voice jarred him out of the momentary haze. Deacon was tempted to make a show out of pulling away to spite her - but he recalled that the Courier had plenty of cause to act as she did. Instead he cleared his throat and muttered an apology. The visible part of Charmer’s face flushed.

“I’ll let Shaun know you’re up. If you want me to.” The Courier continued, adding the second sentence after she saw Charmer’s body stiffen. Whatever bubble of post-battle euphoria had formed was popped in an instant. “He’s asleep right now. Couldn’t sleep through the night. Don’t think he knows how to say it, but - he’s scared.” A plea, in her own way. A part of the Courier that he couldn’t ever have anticipated until now. 

Charmer took in a deep breath, gathered the strength to keep her composure. “Yeah. I…” A little noise of pain escaped her throat when she grimaced, the action tugging on her wounds. “I should have talked to him before now.” Guilt. “Just - before you do. So I know how to act. Does he… does he know he’s a synth?”

“No.” The Courier replied grimly. “You going to tell him?”

“That’s the big question, isn’t it.” Deacon murmured when Charmer looked over to him for input. “Look - we’ve never had a  _ kid _ synth before. Not one that we knew of. So this is new territory, even ignoring the fact that he’s… well.” He couldn’t assign ownership to Charmer, couldn’t remind her of her son - and his work. Not now. Her body had to recover first - then her mind could take the blow. “I’d ask another synth. See if they’d want to know, in his shoes.”

“You plan on keeping him?” The Courier followed with another sucker punch of a question.

He wanted to push her away, to get her away from Charmer before she could do more damage - but this wasn’t a question that could wait. With the entirety of the Institute’s synths now freed, Amari’s services would fast be in high demand. The sooner a decision was made, the better. Leaving the kid to drift in limbo was cruel.

It was what the Courier added, when Charmer answered with silence, that improved his opinion of her.

“Glory said she’d never regretted turning down the wipe.” she spoke quietly, pained at the memory. “And Danse never sprung for it. I don’t think knowing what he is would be so terrible. I know what it’s like to lose the life you had. I’d prefer this over a lie. And… I don’t think you’d be able to be a mother to him if he didn’t know.”

The Courier had an eerie perceptiveness about her, when it came to people. It unnerved even Deacon.

“You’re right.” Charmer spoke at last. “I… I can’t turn him over to someone else. He’s my responsibility.” She was trying to map out the logic of it, like this was another plan of theirs. “He thinks I’m his mother. I  _ am _ his mother, in some… terrible, fucked up way.” Her voice cracked. “How much does he remember? About the Institute?”

“You should listen to this.” A holotape was retrieved from the Courier’s pocket and tossed over. Deacon still had the reflexes to catch it. The tape was clean - new. He knew where it’d come from before the Courier explained it. “Kid said it was for you. I gave it a listen, nothing terrible.”

Charmer didn’t seem reassured. Deacon tucked the tape into her pack for safe-keeping. 

The Courier continued. “He doesn’t remember when he was younger, if that’s what you’re asking. Just told me he was little then, that it’s all fuzzy. Far as he’s concerned, he was being watched by a nice old man until you got back.” She shrugged. “That old man’s reasons for doing what he did are on that tape.”

Charmer leaned back on the wall, slouched. “Do you think he can handle the truth? Now?”

Deacon frowned. “Charms. You don’t have to tell him right away. You can barely talk without wincing. A few days won’t kill him.”

“That mean you’re keeping him?” The Courier interjected before they could argue the point.

Charmer’s shoulders sagged. She nodded. The decision made Deacon wonder - a lifetime ago, he’d wanted kids. If he was going to be spending whatever years he had left with her - and  _ god _ , did he want to - he knew Charmer well enough to know that’d mean he’d watch Shaun grow up. He wouldn’t be the boy’s father, even if that was what Charmer wanted - but Deacon was a capable liar. He could play the part, if it was asked of him.

The answer seemed to satisfy the Courier. “I agree with Deacon, then. There’s no rush if you’re not going to memwipe him.” There was a wrinkle in her brow. “That also means I have a favor to ask you.”

Charmer tilted her head, the darkness that had fallen over her replaced by momentary curiosity.

“Look. I’m not good… at these things, but I’m going to try. You two are the closest thing I have to friends, here. Shaun’s taken a liking to me. I know things are going to change for you. I know that people go their separate ways, after things like this happen.” She dropped her gaze to her feet, all confidence suddenly leaving her. It was a vulnerability Deacon hadn’t seen from her since that night in Goodneighbor, months ago. “But - if you don’t plan on getting as far as you can from all this. I’d like to stay in touch. I’d like to stay in touch with everyone here, really, but I know you the best.”

She was speaking more to Charmer than she was to him, but he wanted to tell her she had an insight into him that few others did. What little she knew put her far ahead of the rest.

“Of course we’re staying.” Charmer replied, somewhat incredulous. Deacon agreed - of course they were staying. Boston sung with her history, was a reminder that her life before wasn’t just a fever dream, that things existed and mattered. Here she could share some of those memories with others, as she’d shared them with him. In the Commonwealth, they’d found each other. This place was sacred - to him as much as to her. 

“I read in a tourism brochure that Boston’s the best place in America to retire, anyways.” Deacon added. 

The Courier shifted her weight, suddenly awkward. That vulnerability had faded into something resembling contentment. “Okay. Well… good. I’ll go wake the kid up.” She seemed eager to take advantage of the excuse to escape.

“I don’t think anyone’s told her that before.” Charmer mused quietly, watching the other woman depart. “She called it doing her a favor.”

“Get the feeling that the Courier’s not used to stability in her life. Not to armchair psychologist or anything.” He rolled his shoulders and patted her leg. “Don’t worry about the kid. He’s sweet. Caught him trying to see if you were alright while you slept. Had a chat. He didn’t believe me when I said we were all spies, you know.”

His judgement soothed her more than he’d thought. For all the power she held over him, he seemed to hold the same amount of sway. Where once it’d terrify him, now it thrilled him. They’d placed faith in each other and been rewarded for it. 

Charmer laughed, a weak, rasping thing. The fact that she’d managed it at all still gave him joy. “Figures that when you tell the truth no one believes you. He’s… he’s good, then?”

“Yeah. Smart, too. I think you’re going to like him.” 

This time, when that maternal love crossed her features, it didn’t make him sad.

\--

True to his word, Charmer and her artificial son got on smashingly. The child was overjoyed to see her - and curious, asking her a million questions about the Railroad and the crypt, quizzing her on the world above. 

She was happy to oblige him, but she couldn’t look at his face too long. Shaun was too smart not to notice. 

Deacon watched the bittersweet scene in silence. Now that his mother was conscious, Shaun’s interest in him had evaporated. 

The programmed perfect child. He wondered how much of it would change, when the truth was unveiled - if it was ever unveiled. Every newly escaped synth was unfailingly polite, sweet to a fault - until they knew they were safe. Deacon saw the similarities - Charmer had to have seen them, too.

Father had laid a philosophical and ethical landmine at their feet. A last fuck you, no matter what reasons he gave in the holotape. Deacon didn’t know if Charmer would ever listen to it - if she ever wanted a reminder of what her son was, of the brief reign of terror she’d borne witness to.

The hunch was solidified when Shaun asked her about the Institute.

“I heard some people talking. Did you really blow it up? Why?” The boy seemed more confused than heartbroken.

Charmer exhaled, clearly dreading the question. “They were bad people, Shaun. Dangerous. They made people, but didn’t treat them like people.”

“That’s what Tom said.” Shaun’s face fell. “So… synths are people? I don’t remember them acting like people.”

“They couldn’t, if they wanted to survive. The Institute thought their feelings were a malfunction.”

“Oh. So they were scared. I always thought the Institute were nice people. I’m sad they aren’t.” His shoulder sagged, in the same manner his mother’s did. Deacon wondered if posture was genetic. “But we’re together now, so I’ll be okay. You… you aren’t going to leave me again, are you?”

“Never.” Charmer wrapped her arms around the boy and drew him into the tightest hug she could manage, kissing the crown of his head.

A perfect child. Nothing could dampen his spirits, not even the revelation that his mother had destroyed the only family he knew. As long as the boy believed in the past that was constructed for him, he’d be happy. Ignorance was bliss.

Charmer opened her eyes and looked at Deacon over Shaun’s shoulder.

The veil would have to fall. Both of them knew it.  For now, though - they’d take what happiness they could get. After all of the suffering and loss, they'd earned it.

Whatever the future had in store for them, they'd tackle it and triumph. They could do the impossible as long as they were together. 

True happiness had seemed impossible for so long. 

Now, as he looked at Charmer with Shaun in her arms, he thought he just might have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Deacon POV for this fic. :( I'm not done with these babies yet, but I am still sad.


	40. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after her world ended, another world begins for Charmer. The Courier finds some redemption.

The Courier had come to the Commonwealth to die.

She didn’t.

She’d found people who fought and died not for power, but for justice. Avenging loved ones and ensuring the rights of others. She’d discovered things she’d never have known about in the Mojave, seen a city without masters growing and thriving. 

She’d found light. Glory. A kind of love that did not hurt, that didn’t have her questioning herself, her every perception. A bright, blazing love, undeniable but gentle. No expectations. She’d been appreciated for what she was and didn’t feel as if the wrong action would end the world.

For a moment, she’d thought she could have what she’d thought she always wanted. With Glory’s death, she realized that maybe that what she wanted was never something she’d have. 

With Glory’s death, she understood Boone when he said he could never leave the Mojave. In the Commonwealth, the Courier had found light, peace. Could it ever exist somewhere else? Or were memories all she was fated to have?

At least Glory’s memory was one that would last.

\--

They held a vigil, three days after the raid on the Institute, when the last survivors were recovered enough to stand. HQ’s agents gathered round the old stone map table - where once papers and plans were strewn across it, now sat a single lantern at its center. A box of matches sat at the table’s edge, a crate of flat bottomed candles on the floor below it.

Desdemona approached the table and struck a match. She held it aloft, illuminating her face, and circled the table to open the lantern hatch and light it.

“Twenty five. Twenty five of us were lost in our finest hour. Twenty five of us gave their lives at the very end to make sure we would see this day.” Their leader began. “We are all acquainted with loss. We’ve pushed onward, and now, at last, we can say that all of our tears have been worth it. Now, we can take time to remember.”

The Courier watched as Desdemona circled back to the box of candles. She took two and arranged them on the stone table, lighting each.

“High Rise. Glory.”

Then she took out three more. The people these belonged to were secret ones - Desdemona mouthed their names silently and dipped her head. She stepped back and joined the crowd encircling the table. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Footsteps. Deacon stepped forward, supporting Charmer at his side. 

They each took a candle to light. 

“Nate.” Charmer said quietly. 

Deacon, like Desdemona, mouthed the name of his own in silence. He paused, then lit another candle.

“Tommy Whispers.” He cleared his throat, uneasy from all the eyes on him. “This was supposed to be Glory’s job. Guess I’m still picking up after her.” 

The Courier knew the name. Had heard Glory mourn the man - he was her protege, her partner before the Courier came along. High Rise was another friend of hers - Glory told her the story of how she ended up recruited into HQ thanks to a daring mission she’d run with the man.

Now their candles were clustered together. Three souls, brightly burning. The Courier felt her throat constrict. Her eyes burned like the candles, holding back tears.

Agents came forth and added their own to the table. The Courier observed in silence. The one she could mourn had already been claimed. Instead she shared in the grief, the unspoken mourning.

As time went on, and the stone table filled with candles, an odd optimism filled the air. It was a ritual - with every candle lit and every name spoken, another soul was freed. Another burden lifted. 

They didn’t have to carry their grief anymore. Their goal had been achieved. 

It was worth it. Every candle had a purpose. For once, death in the Wasteland wasn’t senseless.

Tinker Tom had the most candles to light. He handled them as if they were glass - they shook in his hands. Desdemona came to help him, holding each out for him to light. A litany of names passed by, but the last gave the Courier pause.

“Thomas.” 

Tom’s hands fell to his side. Desdemona embraced him just as he began to cry. When the Courier realized what he had done, her emotions hit her like a ton of bricks.

A bullet to the head took away her identity and any chance she had of normalcy. Ripped whatever future she had been building to out of her hands and placed the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

Never did she stop to mourn that which hung like a shadow over her.

A few more agents did their duty. When there was a lull, the Courier at last approached.

She picked up a candle and lit it, placing it near to Glory’s.

For the first time in seven years, she spoke her name.

“Carmen.”

The woman she was had died. Now the world lay ahead of her.

\--

When the vigil was over, the crypt was alight and glimmering. Candlelight reflected off of terminals, refracted through beakers and glasses. 

Desdemona spoke up again. “We’ve worked a miracle. I never thought this day would come in my lifetime. For ten years, I’ve done my best to do right by you all. For ten years, I’ve been inspired and moved by everyone who’s come into the fold. Now, the worst is behind us. The Institute is defeated.”

Cheers rang through the crypt. Elation took hold at last, the dead freed and old wounds finally allowed to heal.

Dez raised her hand. “There is still work to be done. The Commonwealth still fears synths, and we don’t know how many are still out there at risk. I’m not asking you to stay. You’ve all done so much more than I could ever ask you to do. You’ve earned rest. Some of you have homes to go back to.” She paused. Her eyes moved from face to face. Tom. Drummer Boy. Deacon. Charmer. Carrington. The Courier. “For some of us, the Railroad is home. For you, there’s work to be had if you want it. And on that beautiful day when, at last, we’re not needed any more - my doors will be open to you.” 

Their leader was blinking back tears.

“I'm so proud. Thank you. Thank you.”

\--

With the Institute gone, HQ started to empty. 

The Courier wasn’t expecting any new arrivals.

She was cleaning her rifle when a large figure approached her worktable.

“I’m surprised you’re still working.” A warm, deep voice spoke.

The Courier looked up to see Paladin Danse standing across from her. He looked better than he had when she last saw him - she guessed that the cat sitting on one of his wide shoulders had something to do with it.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Apparently you’re moving your base of operations, so my presence isn’t going to do any harm even if I wanted to.” he explained somewhat apologetically. “I wanted to thank you. Properly. And I wanted to understand what Maxson did. See it with my own eyes.”

She grabbed a rag and started wiping her hands clean. “Corpses are gone.”

“We were told that you were going to doom humanity. By allowing synths to live you were enabling the Institute’s actions and contributing to their success. That you were dangerous and had to be stopped.” Danse forged onward. “I didn’t realize just how underground you were. I thought you were on the level of a mercenary outfit at least, but you’re-”

“Civilians.” The Courier finished for him.

Danse exhaled, flustered. “Yes. What was done was a crime. I understand your rage, now.” The cat on his shoulder nudged his head, rubbed its cheek against his scalp. The former paladin gave it an affectionate pat. “There’s… a lot of things I’m starting to understand. Too much to comprehend, sometimes. But thanks to you, I’m not alone. Haylen found me. You let her live.”

She raised a brow. “Those the words she used to describe it?”

“Not… exactly. I promise, though, you don’t have to worry about her. She knows Maxson went too far. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else. Either way - you kept your word, even when you didn’t have to.”

“I was tired of breaking promises.” The Courier shrugged.

Danse frowned. “You have honor. That’s more than most people in the wasteland.”

“You ever think you give us wastelanders too little credit?”

“... that’s possible.” Danse admitted sheepishly. “Well. I… suppose that’s it. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay in the Commonwealth. Haylen wants to return to the Citadel and see if there’s any way we can do right. So, if we don’t meet again, I want you to know that you and Glory gave me a chance that I don’t think anyone else would have. I’ll never forget it.”

“Don’t forget her.” The Courier murmured. “If you do anything, just make sure she’s remembered.”

“Of course.” His nod somehow instilled her with confidence. The man was honest.  _ Honorable _ , to use his own words. When she looked at him, standing proud despite who he was, what he’d done - she felt good about herself.

How long had it been since she could say that?

“Stay safe out there, soldier.” she called after him, when he’d nearly reached the exit.

Danse turned and saluted her.

\--

The old guard stuck around. Desdemona and Carrington were figuring out their new priorities. Drummer Boy was running notes of thanks between safehouses - some were meant to be kept, logged into their terminals as a sort of history. An attempt to capture a moment in time that would never happen again.

She’d read enough old terminals to know the written word had staying power.

Tinker Tom, for once, was able to build for his own sake. The Courier didn’t know what device he was creating this time - something about water, but she tuned out when he’d started rattling off various parts she couldn’t identify. 

Charmer was still recovering. Deacon didn’t leave her side. Shaun wandered up to the Courier, when he grew bored of watching Tom work and his new family were preoccupied.

She didn’t know why the boy had taken such a liking to her. 

Maybe some part of him knew he was different, just as she was.

He asked her about the rest of the country. He knew the names of all the States, filled her in on the history of the ones she’d passed through. How the Storm of Kansas was a phenomenon they’d called tornadoes before the war, how the currents of wind had turned a swath of the heartland into a place called Tornado Alley. When she told him of Storm’s destructive force, he wondered aloud if the bombs had raised the earth’s temperature enough to supercharge the storms.

The boy was smart. Devoured every tale she had to tell with interest, as if he couldn’t get enough.

He told her of his fears, too.

How scared he was that his mother would change her mind, or die. How people treated him differently. How he wished he could remember when he was younger, how he didn’t know his mother’s favorite color or flower or how to make her feel better.

The Courier did what she could to reassure him, and she found that, for once, her manner of speaking helped. The boy appreciated plain terms, realistic explanations. 

Shaun was going to be alright, she decided. He, like all the rest of them, was putting on a show. To be what was expected of him. On the inside, he wasn’t quite the fragile boy he seemed - even though his worries ran deep.

She wanted to stick around to see what he’d become.

Maybe, as with Danse, she’d help make a difference.

\--

A week after the raid on the Institute, Charmer’s bandages were removed. Thanks to Carrington’s expert attention, she’d escaped without infection - but not without scarring.

The Courier was reminded of one of the pre-War posters battered by time, looking at her. While part of her was marred, the glimmer of past glory still shone through.

The same couldn’t be said of the woman’s mental state. The Courier knew in the way Shaun had confessed to her, in how Deacon’s hands seemed to constantly be seeking Charmer’s, in the heavy way the woman moved. 

She’d seen the woman behold the destruction she wrought. Saw the reflection of the flames in Charmer’s eyes. The Courier had watched her to see what it was to truly know one’s history, one’s mark - the consequences of a decision. It was something she couldn’t describe to anyone who had not felt the same thing, those poor fools of fate.

Charmer carried the weight with her even now, but there was a determination to her that seperated her from the Courier. She had her pain, but it wasn’t an anchor. She had people who were there for her.

Just like her son, she’d be alright.

On that seventh day, Charmer and Deacon picked up their packs once more. The old guard followed them out, stopping to see them off on the church steps.

The autumn air was crisp, clean, felt almost sharp when contrasted against the stale air of the crypt.

Deacon seemed mildly exasperated at all the attention, which surprised her. “Dez. We’re just going to Mercer. You don’t have to do-” 

“I do.” Desdemona replied. “You’ve both earned a  _ very _ long vacation, and by the time I’m going to even think of letting either of you do some work for us we’ll have moved.”

Charmer looked up at the church steeple. The Courier followed her gaze. It shone in the sunlight. She understood why people worshipped in such a place.

“So this is it for the old church, huh.” Charmer said softly.

“You’ve been lucky enough to know one headquarters. Don’t worry, we’ll let you know the new location.” Dez couldn’t help but smile as she spoke. “Everyone’s first is sentimental, Charmer.”

“Speak for yourself.” Deacon laughed. “ _ My _ first was in a sewer. Let me tell you, it made the crypt smell like a field of hubflowers.”

“Why would you live in a sewer?” Shaun wrinkled his nose and earned a ruffle of his hair from Deacon.

“Well, you don’t have to shower, for starters. No one really notices the smell- hey, okay, fine.” Deacon rubbed his side, where Charmer had just elbowed him.

“Thanks, Dez.” She was painfully earnest. “For everything. You trusted me when things were at their worst. You had faith in me when… when I didn’t know if I could go on. And… you’re better than anyone was before the war. I mean it. If we had more people like you - all of you - back then, maybe things would’ve turned out better.”

“Better late than never.” The Courier offered at last. A breeze blew, sending multicolored leaves dancing across the old cobblestones.

“You can say that about a lot of things.” Desdemona observed with a grin. “I’m relaxing the rules on fraternization, by the by. If I make an exception just for you two there’ll be a riot - and I think the need for deep cover has passed.”

Deacon’s grin was a shit-eating one. Charmer’s cheeks flushed. 

“I got fifty caps out of it.” Drummer Boy confessed. “Had a bet running with one of the boys from Mercer on whether or not you-”

The look Desdemona gave him silenced him.

Deacon’s grin faded, a look of offense now on his face. “Was it that obvious?”

“Yes.” Dez, Carrington, Drummer Boy, and the Courier replied in unison.

Deacon tilted his head to his partner, raising a brow. “Well. Guess you make me sloppy. Good thing I’ve got many long, lazy, dull days ahead of me.”

Shaun grimaced, clearly feeling a little awkward. Charmer picked up on it.

“I… guess we should go.” She didn’t seem too eager to do so. 

The Courier had some idea of how she must have felt. The moment was one she’d likely remember for the rest of her life - the last vestige of what would become the Glory Days. A time when things were simple, when there was only one goal, when the future and its infinite unknowable paths didn’t stretch out before her. 

Deacon wrapped his arm around Charmer’s waist. “You know Mercer’s going to be having one hell of a party. It’ll be fun.”

Unlike the Courier, Charmer had a happier chapter awaiting her, if fate was kind.

Charmer embraced them all in farewell - even Carrington. When it was the Courier’s turn, she whispered something into her ear.

“You’re a good woman. Never tell yourself otherwise.”

She stared at her burned face when the woman pulled away. Tears sprung to her eyes.

Deacon and Charmer started to walk down the fall cobblestones, hand in hand. For everything that had happened to them, they'd let go. Shaun stepped on the crunchiest leaves he could find behind them. 

_ Let go. Begin again. _

The tears fell freely down her face. She'd helped them do what she never could. Did some good. Good for its own sake. Now when she saw the results of her deeds, her tears were happy ones.

Falling leaves caught the sunlight, glimmering color.

In the Commonwealth, she’d found life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. It's been a wild couple months and this is the first fic in my life beyond a twoshot that I've ever finished. Thank you all so, so much. I plan on having another fic with some further epilogue-y drabbles, but this is it for l'Appel du Vide. You guys are awesome. Take care out there. <3


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